


To Pay

by White_Rabbits_Clock



Series: Smoke [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe- Erebor Never Fell, Attempted Murders, F/M, Gen, M/M, Plots to rule the world, WIP, that sort of thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 24,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Rabbits_Clock/pseuds/White_Rabbits_Clock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Battle of the Five Armies is done, and Bilbo has returned home, unable to reconcile who he's become to with the things that haunt him. He aims to settle his demons, while, back in Erebor, life goes on.</p><p>WARNING: this won't make sense without reading the other two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> 3-24-2016: I forgot to write down what the days of the week are, so here it is!  
> Monday= Luni  
> Tuesday= Mardi  
> Wednesday= Mercredi  
> Thursday= Jeudi  
> Friday= Vendredi  
> Saturday=Samedi  
> Sunday= Dimanche

Evening sweeps soft and gentle over Hobbiton, disguising the silent traveler. He left his horse stabled at the inn, so not even the clip clop of pony hooves disrupts the stillness. It feels as though he is in a dream, as he has not been here for a while, and he never wanted to come back. He feels he must, though, as he knocks on the door to a rather large smial.

A little lass no higher than his thigh peeps out from the crack.

“E-evening, mister,” the lass says.

“Hullo, love. Is Gerontius Took still up?”

“Y-yes, mister,” she confirms. The way her voice shakes tells the traveler that she shouldn’t be up, nor should she be answering the door.

“Tell him he’s got a visitor, yeah?” the lass nods, closes the door, and scampers off into the great Took borough.

“Guest! What guest has the bad manners to come after supper!? Bad manners, that!” The old hobbit grouses before he pulls the door open.

“Evenin’, Master…?” The traveller smiles a bit and pushes his hood back from his face.

“Baggins, Grandfather Took. Bilbo Baggins.”

 


	2. To Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo is disconcerted. Thorin is plotting.

BILBO

As much as he was expecting it, braced for it, he’s still not able to hold still when he’s pulled into a tight and fierce hug. Once upon a time, Gerontius Took was his prime. As soon as the vice like arms of the emotional old hobbit close around him, Bilbo wriggles something fierce. He’s released.

When he raises his eyes to Gerontius’, he can see the question there.

“It’s been a long road,” he says. The confusion disappears.

“Well, come in from the cold, then,” Bilbo steps inside, unsure if this was a good idea, after all.

THORIN

At times, it’s hard to forget the look on Bilbo’s face when they were on the Ravenhill. The blood loss had rendered his face a sight paler than even the mountain’s lack of sun had managed. There was dirt and blood in his hair and on his skin and armor. His helmet was lost. 

Thorin remembers hyper-focusing on that- Bilbo’s head was unprotected. The shortest one on the battlefield should not have an unprotected head, for Mahal’s sake. Then, there was the later that didn’t take long to arrive.

He remembers the tears. He shouldn’t have made him cry. He spent months avoiding such a reaction or any of its cousins. He meant to tell him it’d be alright, but all he managed was a greeting and a shoddy one, at that.

Thorin shakes his head. Bilbo is gone. He needs to stop overthinking things. Thorin swallows the food in his mouth and looks back at the occupants of the table.

“So what do you want to do?” According to Dori, omegas are getting shorted or straight lied to over what they’re buying down in Dale and Esgaroth. It’s unacceptable. Odd Erebor may be, but Thorin will not stand for such behavior. 

This is, unfortunately, a delicate situation. For one thing, neither town has or is inclined to gain the sort of control needed to stop the cheating in the market. For another, even if Thorin were to just waltz down there and demand a stop, the idea that omegas can’t hold there own will merely be reinforced; Thorin aims to break it to pieces and dance on the shards. He cannot directly fix this. Not this early in the game, anyways.

In many things, Dori defers to him. In this, Thorin will defer to Dori.

“A boycott. The elves will be happy with the increased trade.”

“Thranduil is not to be trusted. An increase outside of the normal seasonal shifts will cost, regardless of why or in which direction.” Dori regards him, a little suspicious. Thorin cannot blame him. The Primes of Erebor have a history of tension and wrongdoings with Thranduil and, before that, his father.

Fortunately, Thorin has a very good reason to mistrust aside from carrying on tradition.

In his last days of frenzy, Thror once offered the White Jewels to Thranduil in an “attempt” to bridge the generations old tension between Erebor and the Greenwood. When Thranduil arrived to collect them and finalize the correspondence and mental peace between them, Thror slammed the chest the gems sat in shut, just barely missing the elf’s fingers. It nearly started a fucking war, and Thorin couldn’t do the damage control he needed to, since he himself was still trying to wrest power from his grandfather at the time.

Later, when his grandfather was cold in his grave, Thorin had given the gems along with five additional treasure chests to Thranduil in an attempt to at least bring the tension down to what it was before, but, well received as it was, Thorin knows he and his are owed a fall.

You do not slight a Prime like that. 

“So the elves are out?”

“No, they just need to be supplemented. The Iron Hills could use more business.” Dori’s silver head nods.

“Have you heard from Bilbo?” Thorin shakes his head. The Wizard arrived and left with the hobbit some time ago. Still, it’d be folly to expect word now.

“No. It’s too early to worry.” He gets a tight smile. Too early, but they’ll do it anyways.

“Speaking of hearing,” Nori drawls where he eats a scone without dropping a single crumb, “some of your reports are being embellished, particularly the agricultural ones.”

“Do you have the real numbers?” Thorin says, pulling out one of the many leather portfolios he carries with him and and unearthing the latest master report.

“No, but, if I’m right, they won’t get the soil turned in time, so be prepared for that.” Thorin nods. Not ever slight can simply be dealt with. If Thorin shows his hand by being ready for everything, the game will be up. If all that will happen is the fields won’t turn in time, then Thorin will ready for an intervention and try to control the fallout, but he’ll let it happen all the same.

His grandfather once told him to choose well the hill you die on. Thorin smothers a bitter smirk. Madness was that hill, apparently.

BILBO

His hair is darker, with the water from his bath weighing down the color. It’s been years since it was cut, so it nearly reaches his butt. He’s changed into one of the nicer tunics he has, the square body fit him a bit better than the rest, which are designed for the hiding of little objects. He has six piercings: one in each lobe and two in each arch. A flat link chain holds a single, thin ring; he long ago abandoned the hobbit version of finery.

Bilbo moves silently out from the room with the bath and joins Gerontius in his private sitting room. He perches on the edge of a chair. His grandfather is the Alpha Prime of Hobbiton, but Bilbo… Bilbo remembers the strange and dangerous feeling he got when he finished Bolg off. He remembers with certainty that these are his people. Bilbo is an Omega Prime of Erebor, and he no longer knows where he stands, here in this place he had to leave behind.


	3. Grandfather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo and Gerontius speak, Nori thinks about trying again.

NORI

Bilbo’s absence is a physical thing in the lives of the Company. They’d grown used to a pair of dark eyes watching them. Even Nori, sneak that he is, could not completely escape Bilbo’s gaze.

“Do you think he’s coming back?” Nori says aloud as he leans against a wall in a tack room. Dwalin’s pursuing a rack of wooden practice swords, taking them down one by one and inspecting them. He has a new group of trainees and they start tomorrow. 

A few swords are tossed onto the heavy wooden table. 

“Don’t know. Not sure why he left.” Nori shrugs.

“He said it was to settle his affairs.” Dwalin snorts.

“Yeah. The last time someone said that, they gutted their rival from neck to diaphragm.” Nori laughs. He remembers that. The kid that did it was small for his age, too.

“I think he’s gone back to see the hobbit Linir told Thorin about- the one that sold him out.”

“Hmm.” Dwalin grunts. Another sword clatters onto the table. The majority of the practice swords can go unused for months, depending on where most dwarves test their skill. Dwalin will need to repair the ones he leaves out.

Nori takes a long look at Dwalin and wonders if there’s a way to bridge this separation. He wonders if there’s enough left of his old self to pick up the game of cat and mouse they’d been playing before… before it all. He refuses to think about it in all it’s nasty dishonor.

“Let’s practice.” He says abruptly. Dwalin casts a glance over his shoulder.

“Help me with these swords, and we’ll practice to your heart’s content.” Nori nods and catches the little folding knife Dwalin tosses him. He steps up to the table and pulls the first rough wooden sword towards him. This is a start, he thinks. He’s not sure he’s ready for this, but it’s a start.

BILBO

“Tell me where you’ve gone, child,” Gerontius says as they smoke their pipes and sit in front of a fire. Bilbo considers this. He could tell him the truth- tell him everything, from his journey’s conception to the layovers outside a number of towns Bilbo could not name. He could tell him about the others- about the men and women and, indeed, even other hobbits picked up from the outermost edge of Bree.

He could tell him about how the weather hit him full force and made him angry enough to fight but not strong enough to be free. He could tell him about being a Champion without the title. He could tell him about how they had to skirt the elven strongholds- both of them.

“Erebor,” Bilbo says, “was the final point in my journey,” he says. He keeps the emotion off his face. He does not say how the mere mention of the Lonely Mountain makes him want to run right back. He does not mention how its king is cunning and kind and how his inner circle slowly but surely grew to be as important to Bilbo as Bilbo is- hopes he is, thinks he is- to Thorin.

“Aye. What stopped you?” Another wisp of smoke drifts from his mouth.

“Erebor does not tolerate slaves; I was bought and freed.” Bought with blood and freed with death, but Gerontius need not know that.

“But you haven’t returned to stay,” he says, guessing that this is merely a formality; that Bilbo has no intention of remaining here.

“I suppose the wanderer in me has woken.” He says with a wry smile. Belladonna went wherever she wanted, whenever she wanted, regardless of nearly all circumstances. Gerontius chuckles.

“I never would have guessed.” No, he wouldn't have, because, before his journey, Bilbo had been perfectly content to sit and garden and watch the seasons change. He’d been sad, yes, but he hadn’t lost the energetic and shining quality of young hobbits. It had merely turned inwards.

“Well, she was bound to shine through sometime.” Just the right amount of inflection colors his words loving and wry.

“So. What’s Erebor like?” Bilbo shoves down the sickness he has that urges him to return to his home. He leans his head back against the headrest and closes his eyes, just taking a moment to collect his thoughts.

“It’s very conflicted,” he starts. He doesn’t want to tell Gerontius about Thorin or the rest of the people he’s come to miss. He never considered himself one to keep secrets from Gerontius, of all hobbits, but he falls into the practice easily.

“One would think a hobbit would avoid such a place,” the stern, but caring, gaze pins him in place. Yes, one would.

“It is in Erebor that I regained my freedom. I daresay I can never fully abandon it now. Not with that kind of debt.”

“If the Ereborian dwarves had truly returned your freedom, you would have no such debt.” His grandfather, Bilbo is quickly learning, is far better at twisting the truth out of you than he originally thought. 

He could answer this honestly, tell him he was attached to its dwarves in an irrefutable way. Or, he could evade the question, and turn their eyes on life in hobbiton. Or he can be vague. Yeah. That’ll do. 

“Gratitude is a strong tie,” he says. Gerontius sighs. 

“And yet, you’re back.”

“I left suddenly, without warning or directions as to the care and keeping of what I left behind.”

“You wrote a will. It was carried out.”

“The directions for me going missing are different for the one’s for if I’m dead. I need to take care of that.” He’s here to see Lobelia, really. He needs to see her; needs to see her prim and proper face and body. He needs to see what sent him through hell and into the arms of Erebor and its highly conflicted king. He doesn’t know why; until recently, he’d been perfectly content to never, ever see her face again. He’d been happy to avoid hobbiton for the rest of his life and then some. 

Despite its mystery, it’s no secret that he needs something here that cannot be gotten anywhere else.

“How long are you here, oh wandering one?” Gerontius asks, dragging him out of his thoughts and into the present. the teasing lilt in his voice tells bilbo two things. For one: Gerontius considers him very much aged, despite the fact that he has yet to reach forty. For two: he respects Bilbo enough to treat him as an old friend, rather than a young hobbit two generations his junior.

“Until the caravan comes through at the end of the fall.” He says. It was quite an odd feeling, mounting a horse and riding out with a caravan of all things. He’d been hit with deja vu for every day he rode and every night he slept on the ground in a sleep roll instead of riding in a cage.

“Well, I suppose they’re done with your room, now,” Gerontius says at the stifled yawn Bilbo forces down.

“Thank you. Good night, grandfather,” Bilbo says. He rises and gives a short bow at the waist, one arm across the small of his back and the other across his stomach. 

“Good night, Bilbo.” The hobbit crawls into bed, led by one of the older Tooks, in an exhaustion that has more to do with anticipation of tomorrow than of the travel he has just finished.

When the rest of Hobbiton finds that Bilbo has returned, it will be the spectacle of not only this year but many years after. He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders and tries to sleep, knowing full well that his muscles will hum with unusable energy well into the night.

**  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hai, guys. So, I got grounded, so updates may or may not be on time. I really don't know. Other than that, let me know what you think.


	4. Recieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo has his reintroduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's late. I was struggling with another work or working or sick or asleep.

Dawn rolls over later in hobbiton than it does in Erebor. It seems Bilbo is still on mountain time, because he’s up before the sun. He opens the window and smells the early morning mist of midspring. Hobbit-y clothing have been left for him, and he obediently changes into them. He hasn’t worn braces since they were taken from him after he tried to suffocate his dwarven guard at the beginning of the journey, when they were at a layover outside Bree.

He can’t help but notice that the clothing hangs off him. He tightens the braces a bit more. He’s definitely changing back to the square dwarven tunics he’s been wearing. Those, at least, fit, and he doesn’t wish to undergo the embarrassment of having a tailor cluck at his body. Damn. Even the vest doesn’t fit right. He sets to working on his hair.

Just as dawn rolls around, a little hobbit of four or five knocks carefully on his door and, when Bilbo answers with a gentle smile, leads him to a small nook. Gerontius, also an early riser, is already there. They take early pre-breakfast tea.

“You will need to greet them officially, of course.” Gerontius says. 

“Of course,” Bilbo echoes. This thought has worried him since he left the caravan in Bree. He guessed that dwarves would no longer be welcome in hobbiton, so he didn’t want them coming in. Besides, Bilbo wished for stealth, and dwarves just don’t do it well. Except Nori.

“How do you want it done?” He leans his head back. He’s not used to eating like a hobbit anymore (though one should not let it be said that dwarves do not put it away like the best of them) so he supposes he should time things to the meal where one is expected to eat the least, but is still far enough away that, if he eats his breakfast now, he’ll be fine for more later.

“Over elevensies, in the southern dining hall.” Gerontius nods.

“I suppose we should bring the Tooks by to say hi first,” he says, again. It would be a good idea. He’s going to need help controlling the crowds of hobbits that will come to see the one that both got away, came back, and will soon get away again. Gerontius can order all he wants, but the Tooks will be as curious as ever, and so won’t be able to help if they themselves are clamoring for a look.

“We can start now, I suppose.” Gerontius nods his snowy head.

“And Lobelia?” Another impossible question. Bilbo subconsciously reaches up to mess with a strand of hair at his hairline and to the right of his neck. Gerontius does not miss it.

“In due time,” the old hobbit doesn’t know the half of Lobelia, but Bilbo suspects that, when they meet, her fear of discovery will give Bilbo more sway than she will dare to admit.

“How’s Ortho, and where is he now?”

“Ortho is… a bit strange. Has been since he got back. He resides over Bag End, as per request.” Bilbo nods. He will see to the hobbit that was once his best friend later. 

Bilbo takes the last of his tea in his mouth and swallows it as the first of the tooks spills into the room. She has more food. Good. He’s starting to actually get hungry, now. 

“Begonia,” Bilbo addresses her by name as he rises and accepts her hug. The omega smiles.

“I thought you were dead,” 

“So did I,” he answers wryly as Begonia draws to the side of his chair so that he can talk to her. She and Ortho had been two of his closer friends, though he’d drifted away after his parents’ deaths. 

Begonia’s baby blue eyes twinkle with happiness as they get to talking about her husband, an alpha named Tumbleweed Brandybuck. The curtain that leads to the nook opens up again, and a cherub-faced baby toddles in.

“Bilbo, this is Angelonia,” the hobbit leans down, heave braid slipping off one shoulder to swing in front of Angelonia’s face. Fat little hands reach out and grab the thick mass. Bilbo spreads his own rather small hands and the fluffy creature stumbles right into them, still entranced with the fact that any hobbit could have so much hair. 

“She’s lovely,” though her hair is brown like her father’s (Bilbo met the man when they were younger), the rest of her is purely Begonia Took.

“I know.” The fond smile Begonia gives both of them makes Bilbo happy. At least he won’t be utterly outcast. Carefully, Bilbo crosses one leg over the other and Angelonia leans naturally back into his embrace. Soon enough, Tumbleweed himself makes an appearance. Bilbo turns a critical eye on him. He appears to have maintained the fact that he is a good sort. They didn’t really know each other, so their words are fewer and less fond.

An hour later, six different children have chosen to adopt some part of Bilbo, and they clamber all over him (but they do so carefully, as so they think his smaller stature makes him liable to breaking). Eventually, with all the hobbits of the Took Borough greeted and received, Bilbo moves to the southern dining hall, though not before ditching the vest and pulling on a sleeveless tunic in his room. He automatically goes for the chair to the left of the head of the table. As a guest of relatively high esteem (or at least spectacle), automatically sits near the head. As an unmarried omega, he sits to the left.

Gerontius shakes his snowy head.

“You are receiving. Take the center chair.” Bilbo gives him a smile in thanks and moves to the aforementioned chair. He can see the whole dining room from here.

With the dining room bordering the southern edge of the Took Borough, the light pours in from the windows lining Bilbo’s right. There’s a door on both ends, so the one behind the hobbit is blocked off and locked, so that guests can only come in from the far end. 

Gerontius takes the chair to his right, Begonia, Tumbleweed, and Angelonia next to him. Four more unmarried hobbits that Bilbo once knew before he left and who have not become so judgemental in his absence take the seats to his right. They leave the two chairs next to him empty, essentially bottlenecking the flow of visitors and questions. 

Breakfast food is brought out in huge platters and steaming pots and settled along the long, rectangular dining room table. Another cup of coffee and a plate of deviled eggs are Bilbo’s choice for the first plate as hobbits begin to flood in. They get plates from atop the long credenza stretching the length of the room underneath the rounded windows and collect food as they take a seat.

The first to greet Bilbo is a set of Bracegirdle twins called Daffodil and Daisy in matching green and white dresses, one of which is the negative of the other. The two alphas don’t stay- Bilbo didn’t know them well, if at all- instead, they say hi, remark on his unusually long hair and how much they worried for him and for Ortho and a general murmur of we’re glad you’re back and we think you’re strange. This goes on beyond elevensies, through lunch, and into the afternoon.

An hour in, he stands and greets Ortho by pressing their foreheads together. By the time the light coming in through the windows starts to dim and turn red and orange, Bilbo is ready for an early bedtime. Still, he sits through dinner and another pipe with Gerontius.

He didn’t see Lobelia today, but with nearly all of Hobbiton taken care of, Bilbo can rightfully demand privacy throughout the days coming. 

When he does make it back to his room, he doesn’t bother with sleep clothes; merely locking the door, stripping to his smalls, loosening the laces, and crawling beneath the heavy blanket. He does not dwell in the state of perpetual disturbance he’d been in the night before. 

He sleeps hard and heavy and dreamlessly, the first day behind him. 


	5. Hung

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erebor's never boring, and Bilbo remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, guys! Couple questions:  
> 1) If I wrote a crossover/multiverse thing, would anyone read it?  
> 2) What do you do with a tumblr blog for your AO3 account?

He wakes up just before the third bell to movement in his room. He is instantly awake and does not show it. He is still just a puddle of dwarf when the quick deadly movement jabs towards him. Thorin lashes out just in time. He catches the dwarf (he thinks), flips him over and onto the bed, pinning him.

“Mahal, can’t a dwarf get some sleep?!” he huffs. The other dwarf struggles as Thorin disarms him. 

“Yeh can sleep forever, if you’d like!” Ah, a mouthy one.

“Fat chance.” When he’s sure the dwarf is weaponless, he takes the arm in his hand and joins it with the arm under his knee and drags the dwarf off the bed and over to the fireplace. He then cracks a heavy skull against the stone mantle and drops him. 

He picks up the extra torch and just barely gets the oil to light with the still burning embers of the banked fire. It occurs to him that the guards are either dead, lazy, traitors, or there’s another way into this hall that Thorin doesn’t know about. 

After he finds the rope he hid behind the ash bin and hog ties his would be murderer, he takes the unconscious fool and puts him in the water closet, strung up on a hook on the inside. With the door locked from the outside, he won’t be going anywhere at any time.

One guard, it turns out, is actually dead. The other, slit across the wrist and clamped down on it for all he’s worth. A bit deeper, and he would have been dead in seconds.

Thorin picks up the scent of a second attacker. With Dwalin at his back and he himself fully dressed (he had gone to sleep in fresh smalls last night. As un-shy as he is, one does not simply hunt down assassins in one’s underthings, for Mahal’s sake), they find the dwarf preparing to leave the city. 

A dumb and useless move, when a Prime’s got your sent in his nose. 

Five minutes after the fourth bell, they’ve moved the runner into the dungeons and Thorin has checked on the soldier who lived and sent a prayer to Mahal for the soldier who died. 

“Were there two?” Dwalin asks, the confused expression on his face finally causing him to ask the question. Short as the hunt had been, it had made Thorin forget about all neutralised threats. He opens his mouth and pauses, trying to remember what happened to the first attacker.

“Oh, yes, I’ve hung him in the water closet.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Well I had to put him somewhere.”

 

BILBO

 

The little ones have decided that the large amount of hair Bilbo has going all the way down his back is up for grabs. The second day sees him sitting outside on the front step of the Took borough, several children weaving different types of wild flowers into his hair.

It’d been in a braid, originally, but they’ve undone it.

“Why do you have earrings, Master Baggins?” One of the children asks. She’s maybe five or six, so she doesn’t remember enough of Bilbo to call him by his name. 

“Because I want them, love.” He could have told her the truth. Could have let them all know that he has been spoken for, and that these piercings are proof of it. He doesn’t want to, though. He likes the mystery. He draws on the looks cast at his ears. It’s a reason for him to leave here. It’s proof that he can’t stay, that he’s too different now.

He doesn’t know why he needs the proof, but he does.

“Aren’t earrings for girls, Master Baggins?” a boy of eight asks as he works in amaryllis near his right ear. Bilbo picks up another flower and holds it up for his clever fingers to work into his tresses.

“Most of the time, love.” He remembers being a child, suddenly. He remember Gandalf, of all people.

 

…

 

_ The tall man had come for dinner, and his mother knew him. Bilbo had been introduced, but the man was rather tall, so he’d chosen to avoid him, instead clinging to his mum all through the cooking or to Bungo all through the evening conversation and pipe smoking. The tall man- Gandalf- was interesting, but very tall. _

_ The two of them sat on the bench at the back door and smoked their pipes. Bungo and Gandalf spoke of many things. Eventually, Belladonna joined them, and Bilbo played on the ground by Bungo’s feet while they spoke of adult-y things and laughed at adult-y jokes.  _

_ The toy had been old and unkempt and wooden and had broken against the stone. Bilbo hadn’t immediately started crying, though the sound of breaking wood had halted all noise from his three watchers. Large eyes blinked and blinked again as he held back tears and looked at the broken little wheel.  _

_ He turned to Bungo. His father always fixed his broken little toys and admonished him on not taking care of them. He was getting better but… he’d forgotten. A lot.  _

_ “Bring it here, now, child,” Gandalf had said. The eight year old had frozen and looked at Belladonna. She always knew the strangers better than his da. At her nod, he shyly approached the tall man. _

_ Gandalf had taken the toy in his hands and made it sparkle like stranded baby’s breath. The wheel had fixed itself right in front of his eyes. This put Gandalf on Bilbo’s List of Trusted Ones. He’d clambered up into his lap and immediately set about trying to play with the wizards hair. _

 

…

 

Bilbo smiles. He misses Gandalf. Wonders how the wizard is doing. He holds up another flower.

Evening brings more guests. Same layout as last time. Hobbits from all over the shire come in to see him and greet him and pass judgement upon him. He lets it happen, safe in the knowledge that there’s one hobbit in particular he won’t meet today.

More children wish to play with his hair and the flowers put there, and he lets them. He does not see Lobelia, for which he is intensely glad of, suddenly. When he does see her, he will do it on his own terms, away from the prying eyes of so many dinner guests come to cast judgement.

They eat more food, and people cluck at him for not eating as much as they do, but he has been pressed into sampling food all day, so he’s not actually hungry. He settles back with a coffee and deflects questions about the trip, other than admitting that it was rather hard.

Come bed time, he removes the flowers from his hair and carefully brushes out all the knots. He sleeps restlessly that night, wondering how Thorin and Dori and everyone else is doing.

 


	6. Strange Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori sees Bifur, Bilbo goes looking for trouble.

DORI

 

Like all shop owners, Dori follows a schedule. Lundi is stock day. Following the heavy flow of afternoon Dimanche shoppers (a hill day), the remaining stock is counted, from the flower to the yeast to the tea and oil, it’s all pulled out, accounted for, and compiled into a list. Hmm. He sold more this week than usual. It’s a good thing he stocked extra last Mardi (his market day), because he doesn’t know how much he’ll be able to get from the elves.

According to Thorin, they’re not to be trusted, because Thranduil owes him a fall. Dori’s inclined to agree with him, Thror-esque though it is. Then again, Thror’s the reason he’s owed a fall in the first place. 

The bell at the front door rings. Since the door to the back of the shop is so heavy that Dori runs the risk of not hearing it, the string that attaches the bell to the door runs up through a near unnoticeable hole in the roof, through the upper storage floor, and down into the back of the house. When the bell at the front rings, so does the one at the back.

Dori hauls the fifty pound back of flower off the table and back into its bin, slides that back into place, and heads out to greet his customer. He’s somewhat surprised to see Bifur standing in the front house, but not overly so. 

Dori remembers when they could not look each other in the eye.

 

…

 

_ All dwarven soldiers have a partner when they go into battle; one who’s supposed to watch his back and save his ass and vice versa. For omegas, they need them even more than alphas do, what with the hostility often associated with the bait of the battle. _

_ Bifur was Dori’s partner, then and now. The day Frerin was killed, he was the bait. Out on an open space in a scraggly forest, Dori had stood in the middle of it, great chest pumping like forges’ bellows, sweat gathering on his brow and dripping down his neck and back. The purpose may have been nefarious, but the reaction was real; it was what Dori could not afford at any other time. _

_ The first orc had burst from the trees on his warg directly in front of him. True to form and to training, Dori had run at a diagonal angle, Mahal giving speed to his flight as he rushed across the cold landscape. _

_ The clearing he’d been in had been so wide it was practically a valley. Though Dori had tried to find his way back to Bifur, he couldn’t. There were too many bodies and not enough space and too much space at the same time. By the time he made it, the prince was dead and Bifur chasing his heels. He’d lost his partner that day. He remembers the crushing guilt. The constant nagging voice that if he’d just been there, it would have been okay. But he wasn’t, and it wasn’t, and he’d spent the rest of that war on his own. _

_ It wasn’t out of cruelty or self punishment- Thorin had, at one point, tried to rectify the situation in a very sneaky, not-really-helping-because-coincidences-happen way, but it was no use; Dori was simply not compatible.  _

_ When Bifur and Dori next saw each other, it was to their respective senses of guilt- Dori for getting Bifur axed, and Bifur for leaving Dori to the war- that they avoided each other. It had hurt. _

 

…

 

Dori comes back to himself a moment off from where his mind had wandered. Things are better between them, now. 

“Are you hungry, Bifur?” The dwarf shakes his head before wandering off. He’s never been the same. Not since then. Dori sighs and heads back behind the shop. It wouldn’t be like this if he’d been there.

 

BIFUR

 

_ Talk to him. _

_ He doesn’t want to. _

_ Don’t be a coward. _

_ But what if he doesn’t want to? _

_ Ach. You’re hopeless _ , the voice in his head says. Bifur wanders back down the wide lane between the two sides of buildings and to the training yard.

_ Shut up, Lithir. _

 

BILBO

 

The day is nice, the sky bright, the laughter abundant… and Bilbo has been forced into a fitting. 

“Surely you saw this coming,” Ortho says as he looks on in amusement. None of Bilbo’s old clothes fit him anymore, so he’s been pressed into standing in his smalls so Ortho can take his measurements.

It was originally going to be a seamstress that used to measure him, but Bilbo had refused; along his journey, all his trust had gone away, or been left with those in Erebor. Besides, Ortho, who knows at least a little of what all went on, won’t run his mouth about the scars Bilbo has.

“They whipped you?” he asks, hobbit fingers brushing across a diagonal scar across one shoulder blade. 

“Yes,” Bilbo answers. Ortho writes the last number down and nods to Bilbo.

“I’m done.” quickly, the hobbit pulls his leggings back on, followed by an undershirt, overshirt, close fitted tunic laced at the neck which falls to mid thigh, a slightly shorter thin coat (a parting gift from Nori) and all the things it has in it (including, but not limited to, three knives, a tiny vial of powdered appleseed innards, a handkerchief, a second handkerchief with a series of small, bent pieces of metal that make up his lockpicks, a small silver ring with a raven emblazoned on the inside of it and a blue band of lapis lazuli, a pipe, a small bag of pipeweed of dwarvish variety, and a tiny note that he intends to attach to the foot of a when he gets the chance). 

“Thank you.” Bilbo moves to the door. He’s stopped by a hand on his arm.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Bilbo smiles, touched that, even though they’re so different now, Ortho still cares.

“Yes, Ortho. I’m okay.” His old friend lets him go.

Bilbo moves the back room of the seamstress’s house, pad in hand. Coincidentally enough, it’s the mum of Tumbleweed Brandybuck that takes the pad. She is one of the few who chose not to see him.

The alpha’s gaze is kind and wise and her thin lips twist into a wistful smile. 

“You’re not staying very long, are you?”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am,” Bilbo says respectively. the lady nods, and he steps out into the sunlight, Ortho tagging along behind him.

“I’ll see you later, yeah?” Bilbo asks when they get to the fork in the road. The left leads to the Took Borough. The right: Bag End.

“You don’t want to see…?” the question trails off.

“Not now. There’s something I have to do.” Ortho nods.

“Right then, afternoon, Bilbo.” As soon as he is no longer visible (it’s nearly midday. The children are gone to play, the omegas gone to cook, and the alphas gone to work. There is no one to see him, now) he ducks between two houses (not smials). There is but one road running through most of Hobbiton, but an endless number of rabbit trails and backroads available for the sneakier of the lands grown population.

He breaks into a trot , thigh high grass, hiding his movements as he ducks down and flat sprints all the way past the Took Borough and the Brandybuck Borough and the Bracegirdle Borough until he comes to yet another fork. By now he is so deep in the grass that he doesn’t have to duck to hide, and only his long unused memory of this minotaur’s maze gets him where he needs to go. 

He spends a few minutes catching his breath before following the fork to shallow grass, which leaves him directly behind Lobelia’s smial. He is seized suddenly by the realization that he doesn’t know what he’s doing and how could he? Why would he be here? He should leaveshe’sgoingtosellhimoutagainrunawayrunawayrunaway-

He shakes his head and walks ‘till he sees her in her garden.

“Bilbo!” She says in surprise. He tilts his head to the side and smiles just very slightly.

“Hullo, Lobelia.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feels. The Dori feels. You're welcome.


	7. Appleseeds and Peach Tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today is supply day in Erebor. Bilbo does something interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so every time I have a question (like do you turn the soil in Terrace Farming?) I look it up, so I would like to know if that's made my writing better. Could you guys tell me?

DORI

Dori strolls out of his home, the messenger that brought him forwards at so early an hour long gone. One portion of his supplies arrived today. The elves, apparently, make better time than the Iron Hills dwarves.

With the snows outside melting into brown mush, farmers, their sons and daughters, and any extra hands working to channel the rush of water and dirt from higher on the mountain across the terrace soil before the season turns far enough in its cycle to bring the seeds from the storehouses out and plant them. Dually, what livestock took pregnant during the past year (or summer, for the goats) are heavy and nearly ready now.

This will be a good year. It isn’t every season that the cows, the horses, and the goats all give birth all at once. Not only that, but the postpartum period all animals get will be over before the ponies are evaluated and bought/sold at the beginning of fall, when the caravans pass through.

Hammer hanging from his belt, knife tucked up under his coat, Dori turns his attention from his thoughts to the surroundings outside his door. It’s still dead dark outside, so the black and silver obsidian mirror tunnels have yet to transmit light down here. Consequently, the lanterns still burn.

He smiles. It’s so quiet in Erebor without the beams of sunlight to draw out the craftsmen and guards, the court goers and desk clerks, librarians (like Ori is training to be) and healers. Consequently, when someone gets murdered in Erebor, the time is now.

Heavy boots move dully across the stone as he makes the mains stairwell and takes it to the ground floor. Unlike the majority of Erebor, this place is busy, dwarves walking back and forth as elves help them oversee the unloading of purchases and moving them to the area for storage, grouped by owner.

“Good morning,” Dori says just as the seventh bell sounds somewhere in the distance. Erebor has two bell towers, each in rather tall rooms with monkey holes originally dug when the rooms were being excavated. Today, they carry sound all over the mountain. Dori is pretty sure Nori uses them all the time.

Some of the dwarves jump in surprise. They hadn’t realized that the battle hardened merchant had arrived.

“Master Dori,” one of them says. If Dori is correct, this one actually buys coffee, rather than the tea he sent for.

“Hullo. Is it all here?” One of the dwarves hands him a piece of smudged and dirty paper with the counted number of merchandise. An elf has their own count, along with the order Dori placed. He was shorted on the peach tea the last few times he’s bought from Men, so he placed his order with the elves of Mirkwood this time. Quickly, he pulls out his own piece of paper, copied from his ledger, with what he ordered.

Dori only buys peach tea once every two months, which is why he always orders in bulk. In a week, he can go through one quarter to an eighth of peach tea. There are four weeks in a month, which means he can go through one crate or two in the space of two months.

He ordered extra last time (and got it, thankfully) from the men, since the elven supply caravan doesn’t come around but once every four months, so he has a crate sitting in the shop and it’s three quarters full.

The elven caravan comes every four months (elves move faster than dwarves, and they usually do so through the night) and, because the spring is when the mountain is subject to quick changes in temperature, Dori’s sales are in the median.

On his list is one crate of peach tea, 4’3’3’. It’s all here. It’s been marked in red, as a priority.

The second entry is for flour, five crates, 6 sacks to a crate, crate is 4’3’3’.

The third for sugar, ten crates, twelve sacks a 4’3’3’ crate.

He walks among the merchandise, popping the metal latches with the key the dwarves give him. It’s all here. Mentally, he sighs. The elves are not cheaters. He nods at the dwarves. A few carts is offered, and he and three different dwarves load the peach tea and one of the flour crates on one. The other flour crates go on the second and third, and two crates of sugar on the fourth.

They wheel the first crate into the same shaft they use to transport the small forges. A pulley system made of massive silver chains connects an elevator that goes from two floors below, where the mine’s main floor is, all the way to near the top of the mountain, just below the law floor, where all the medium to major legal issues are dealt with. It’s also where the Closed Court sessions are held.

Dori’s shop is two floors up from here.

They wheel the first and second carts into the elevator. Then, they turn to the chain. In the front of the elevator on the right is a simple, massive pulley. Two dwarves take one side, and two on the other.

Dori glances around. They are all waiting for his order. The merchant waits a moment more. On his next inhale, he barks: “LEFT!” The dwarves to his left, which have the handle that is at stomach height, push forwards, and at the same time, Dori and his partner push backwards.

“RIGHT!” This time, with Dori’s handle being the high one, it is his turn. They do this until they have risen to Dori’s level.

The three dwarves hold the chain in place, locking it by pushing two perfectly forged metal blocks between the gears. The blocks are trapezoidal, and have khuzdul runes on the outside of it, dictating both which way they go and where to take them if they get lost. The trapezoidal prisms’ bottoms extend about an inch and a half longer than the actual gear that turns the chain. The bottoms are pocked with hooked holes that lock the blocks and the gears in place.

Dori smacks both the clasps that hold the doors shut. The heavy metal things swing open with a mighty push. The guards that watch the elevator, as well as keep the young and/or the foolish from being hit by the opening doors, grab the doors and pull it the rest of the way open. Dori is already taking position on the left side of one of the carts, wheeling the first of a handful back to his shop. By the time they are done, the lanterns have been extinguished as bright morning light bounces down the mirror chutes and wakes the rest of the world up.

As Dori turns to see his dwarven helpers out of his shop with the perfectly cooked cookies from last night as thanks for the help- it’s why he always gets three or four dwarves to help him- he sees Bifur. He can tell by the way one of his hands seems to twitch and spasm in slow motion that the older omega doesn’t wish to talk. He almost walks away, then, goes back into his shop and pretends like he didn’t see that, but then chastises himself.

This is his partner, for Mahal’s sake. He is the one person he shouldn’t be such a dumb fuck about. So he holds the door open, inviting Bifur into the well lit interior. The opaque stone that guards the windows- no glass- lets in light, but you can’t see through it. After a moment, Bifur follows him. The rest of the morning is spent in silence, with Bifur sitting at the great table Dori uses for prep and carving.

Dori does not know what has gotten to Bifur today, but he senses that this is the one thing he can do.

BILBO

“What…” Lobelia seems unable to come of with a response.

“Oh, you didn’t come see me. Of course, if it were me who betrayed an omega out of a selfish and vindictive temper, I wouldn’t come see me neither,” Bilbo smiles sweetly.

“Bilbo- I didn’t sell you out,” she says, trying to save face. Something tells Bilbo to take his ass back to the Took Borough and put this kind of shenanigan out of his head. He can’t, though. Not today. Not right now.

“No? Funny, really, because you told them where I’d be. You told them what I’d be doing. You told them where to find me… but, maybe you were just trying to help me. You know, give me an adventure.” He snarls this last part, completely losing it. White pearly fangs are visible behind his curled lips. Lobelia backs up a few step.

“You’re a Prime!” Bilbo raises his head.

“Damn right. So let me tell you this, Lobelia. If you ever allow yourself to fall so far as to do to anyone what you did to me again, I will set your whole life in flames.” Her eyes widen.

“You wouldn’t,” she says. Years ago, he wouldn’t have. He, like all hobbits, was a gentle creature, and he didn’t do harm to other people.

“I will dance on the ashes,” Then he turns and walks back into the tall grass. Two years on the road and the time after that in Erebor has made him a dangerous, savage creature. There isn’t much that he won’t do, nowadays.

He walks home in the quiet, feeling the appleseed extract in one of his pockets. He could do it. He could slip a little into a drink, and let her feel the way he felt when what meat offered to him was raw or bad and he spent a great deal of time puking his guts up. Of course, since the innards of apple seeds are poisonous, it’d have a better ending than another bit of meat tossed his way for him to run the risk of repeating the process.

He shakes his head. He’s a Prime and a hobbit. Not a goddamn coward. If he kills Lobelia for what she’s done, everyone will know, becauses he will tell them himself.


	8. Raven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin spends time with his family, Nori with Dwalin, and Bilbo with his thoughts.

THORIN

Thorin strode through the quiet royal wing, absorbed in his thoughts. He wonders if Bilbo made it to Hobbiton all right. The caravan said he was fine, but there’s still that one stretch of the journey…

Quite suddenly, he finds himself hit in the back of first one knee, then the other. 

“Uncle!” two voices say simultaneously. Thorin grins and carefully swings each of his dwarrow up.

“Slipped by Balin, have you?” right on cue, Fili shakes his head. 

“We finished early!” Thorin laughs. 

“You don’t even finish on time.” Kili starts to giggle, hands grabbing at Thorin’s hair. Thorin is lucky the only thing he has in his hand is his leather portfolio, because it’s a Mahal dammed balancing act to stay upright with two dwarrow children scrabbling over him. 

“Come on then. If you’ve managed to get away from Balin, you deserve a reward.” He continues on to his sister’s chambers, opening the latch the way only someone used to it can.

“Dis! Company.” He drops the boys into a large armchair and knocks foreheads with his emerging sister. 

“They’re supposed to be learning mathematics,” she says, only mildly disapproving.

“Ah, yes, the scourge of the Durin line.” He teases. Neither he nor any of his siblings understood math the way the sculptors and architects do, though they’re all a far cry from bad. 

He takes a tray from his sister and deposits it on the table they’d meant to sup at. The twelfth hour is rung in the distance as Thorin serves his heirs and watches them eat before sending them out to avoid Balin some more. His counselor will catch them eventually, and they should learn to be light footed. 

“What troubles you, brother?” Dis asks as Thorin takes a seat. He leans his head back, but refrains from closing his eyes. If he does, he’ll see Bilbo, his face twisted in fear, eyes hazy with pain, crying for both their deaths.

“Anything. Everything.” Dis shakes her head. Thorin thinks she knows more than he ought to allow. She runs a hand down her beard, so much like Thorin's that they’ve been mistaken for each other on more than one occasion, to both their amusement. 

“I should think you’d gotten over that stage, despite the attempts on your life.”

“Bilbo has not sent a raven. I may be capable of looking out for myself, but Fili and Kili aren’t, the snows are slow to melt this year, and the men are cheating omega traders. I daresay now is not the time to not worry.”

“You’re one of the most slippery people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. You’ll figure it out. Two identical sets of eyes meet over table. They narrow, watching, appraising. Thorin loses it first. He starts to laugh. Dis follows suit, until their both giggling like maddwarrow.

“Tell… tell me about Bilbo. I haven’t actually had a conversation with him,” Dis says when she’s regained her breath. She wipes a tear from the corner of her eye.

“And why is that? You’re usually so nosy.”

“I was being considerate.” Thorin cocks an eyebrow.

“Of him. I was trying to be considerate of Bilbo.” Thorin nods.

“That, I can believe. To answer your question, he’s rather smart. Curious, too.” 

“Is that all?” Dis says, her voice firmly on the side of disbelieving with a thread of “you’re shitting me”. 

“What do you mean, ‘is that all?’”

“‘Oh, hey, there’s this hobbit that I’ve spent a great deal of time and thought and planning and effort on but the only thing I have to say about him is that he’s rather smart!’”

“Well, being as you are, in fact, incredibly nosy, I think I’ll leave you hanging here.”

“You wouldn’t.” Thorin twists one side of his mouth, then the other, into a smile. 

“Watch me.”

DWALIN

Dwalin takes a short lunge forward, bringing his ax up and across, forcing Nori back. 

“Come on, thief, let me see it,”

“You are seeing it,”

“Goatshit.” He grins behind the clanging metal weapons as he sweeps the sharp blade at ankle height. The move is a dangerous one- not what he would usually use in practice- but it does the trick.

“Mahal…” Nori pulls his nose up in a scowl and throws one of his little knives. Dwalin has to dodge it, giving Nori time to detach the long-handled mace from his back. He swings it out in a fast swipe. Dwalin jumps back. The mace has a longer reach than Dwalin’s axes. 

Nori pulls the weapon back and brings it down in a single handed, overhead swipe, giving him room to block Dwalin’s upcoming axe. He doesn’t stop there, though. At the exact moment when all four weapons meet, Nori folds, zipping into the open space, and smacking Dwalin in the chest with his whole body. 

The move takes his bigger opponent by surprise. He stumbles backwards, but throws his body so that, if he falls, Nori gets squished. The redhead successfully avoids said squishing, but it takes him a moment to recover, during which, Dwalin is also up. There’s just one problem, though- Nori has let go of his weapon. He only has the knife on him. 

There’s a single pause, then they’re both aiming for the mace. Dwalin gets there first, fist taking up the unfamiliar weapon. Of course, this means he’s had to sheath one of his axes, which Nori is clever enough to dive on top of him, pull it off his back, and bring it down hard. He feels the spiked point of his mace in his side.

“You’re not at all rusty,” Dwalin says. He’s having fun, eyes shining, mouth pulled open in a grin. 

“Aye,” Nori suddenly aware that he’s actually kneeling on Dwalin, one foot on the ground, the other on one of Dwalin’s armoured plates, knee on the chest plate. He intentionally pushes off a bit hard, then turns around offers his hand. Dwalin takes it. 

The thirteenth bell chimes. The bigger dwarf turns toward where the sound emanates from.

“Hmm. Lunch.” Dwalin says. Nori knows he won’t get a clearer invitation. 

“In a bit.” When Dwalin turns around, the thief is gone. 

BILBO

Bilbo paces down the twisting, wide corridors of the Took Borough, unlocking the backdoor and letting himself out into the wet, sticky warmth of a day near to storming. At the far corner of the property is a single, large aviary. With most hobbits in either Bree or Hobbiton, even the fifty or so ravens that nest here is a bit much, when so many hobbits are already close at hand.

Bilbo peers through the weatherproof glass and selects the biggest, strongest looking raven. Then, he lifts the little bag in his hand. In it’s a mix of fruit and bugs. He leaves it at the entrance, while keeping a piece of watermelon in his hand. Sure enough, the big raven hops out and croaks at him. 

_ Erebor _ , Bilbo croaks back. Then, he ties the note around the bird's leg, waits for him to finish his fruit, and sends him off. His grandmother had taught him to do so when he was a child of ten or so. 

A warm, wet wind ruffles his already irritated hair as the first fat drops of water smack him atop his head. For a moment, Bilbo thinks of Erebor.

…

_ He awoke to rain. Rain and pain. It hurt to breathe, to function, to be awake. So he did not entirely rise from the mire of sleep, it’s gentle, but immovable fingers a welcome presence as he drifted to the pitter patter of rain on canvas.  _

_ He used to hear it a great deal when he was with Linir’s caravan.  _

_ Distantly, he heard someone call his name, but he was too warm, and it hurt too much to wake up enough to deal with people. He held his eyes close only a moment longer before he sank deeper and his breathing returned to normal. _

_... _

 

Bilbo shakes his head and turns to go back inside. It doesn't do to think of that; not now when he's so far away.


	9. Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori is Nori and Lobelia is shaken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be able to post for the next two days, so that's why this is up now.

NORI

 

When the bell rooms and their towers were first constructed, it was done so using monkey holes. Nowadays, they carry the bells’ sound and provide excellent spaces for smallish dwarves to spy on other dwarves, provided Nori wears clay in his ears. 

He crawls through his tunnel, listening carefully for conversation. He knows more about spying and doing it subtly than anyone in Erebor, including what not to report. He makes his to the guest residences, part of which is in a closed off portion of the fourth floor from the top of the mountain. There are pockets of housing all over Erebor, but most dwarves, specifically those who do most of their work in the markets and mines, live on this floor, which is officially houses the residence halls along with several large dining halls. 

Emissaries arrived from the Iron Hills two days ago, and while Thorin is holding council with Dain’s representative, Nori has dispatched himself to the large remainder of the caravan the representatives (Dain’s son and three of his nobles, Nori’s heard) arrived with. 

If Nori had to guess, he’d say that the snows have cleared enough to dispatch someone to deal with the nasty business of Linir. After all, this man, who had the protection of the Iron Hills, brought a slave into Erebor solely to aid in his plot to assassinate Thorin. Something must be said, according to the ways of kings and whatnot. 

Nori’s job, then, is not to see that the truth of Linir’s escapades is being told, but rather to see if there isn’t an alternative reason at least some of the dwarves came for. He arrives at what he thinks is the right room, then settles down to wait. This is always the most dangerous part- the time he’ll wait must be spent in utter stillness. If he’s caught now, he’s screwed. There is no reason for a dwarf to be sneaking about the monkeyholes other than spying. 

By his count, the hour will sound in roughly twenty minutes. Nori lies down flat, so that the sound won’t be too clogged when it does come. He closes his eyes. He doesn't know how long he’ll be here, but it’s best to rest while he can. 

“There is no point in being here!” A fierce whisper awakens Nori. Though he is surprised, he doesn’t move. “Thorin’s guard is too tight. Trying to convince him of anything now will be like beating one’s head against a brick wall.”

“Well, don’t try to convince him then.”

“Aye?”

“The best lies are true. Tell him Linir had no backing; he was simply a rogue. You know as well as I do that he can’t accuse you of lying. Even if he did, he has to prove your involvement.”

“He can probably smell it on me.”

“Not unless you think about it.”

“Yeah, because I’m just not going to think about it.”

“Think of it like this, love: you knew, but Dain didn’t, so if Thorin finds you out, he will bypass us all and go directly to his cousin, which will lead to a demon hunt. All you have to do is tell him what you didn’t do.” The conflicted dwarf sighs. 

“What did I do to deserve an omega like you?”

“Nonsense. It’s the other way around,” the calmer dwarf says with a tone of affection. Nori does not raise his head from his arms just yet, choosing instead to wait until the two have left the room. Interesting. Very interesting.

 

LOBELIA

 

As always, she goes out and waters the flowers, bright yellow jug passing over ankle high morning glories and shoulder height sunflowers, a footpath, never to be walked upon, of lobelia (this is, after all, the same garden her mother once dutifully looked after), the lion’s manes of marigolds, the gathered silk of purple carnations and frozen fae dust of red globemaster allium, and more. 

She crosses to the other side, where, after refilling her can from the hand pump at the back of the garden, she is generous to the tomatoes clinging to their circular shoulder high trestles, which bisects the watermelon and the pumpkin. She looks at her hand. 

It’s begun to shake. 

The backdoor of her fine house makes a noise as her eyebrows draw inward.

“Sit with me, dear,” the old creaky says. She decides she can water the rest in a bit, and goes and takes a seat. As she’s done since she was a child of twelve, she takes a seat next to Camellia Sackville. She wishes to sit at her mother’s feet and leans back against her calves. She hasn’t done that in years, and, while she won’t break face now, she feels she’s overdue for an exception.

“He came to you, didn’t he?” she nods, watching the light of the afternoon. It’s early in the summer, so the garden is not yet in full glory, but it will. It seems the only thing she doesn’t destroy is her flowers and her vegetables, blooming high and beautiful and bright, no matter the problem indoors. 

“Lobelia, Lobelia,” her mother says, shaking her old white head, “what are we going to do with you?”

“We?” Lobelia says, sticking to her long held belief of doing it yourself. “Nothing. I, however, am working on a plan.” The old woman turns her head and holds her gaze. Watery blue eyes lock onto her own, which swing more towards grey.

“Child, even you ought to recognize when you’re out of your depth.”

“I’m not ‘out of my depth’, I’ve already drowned.”

“Nonsense.” The coldness in her mother’s voice tightens Lobelia’s mouth and brings to the surface a deep and abiding bitterness.

“I betrayed another hobbit. Not only that, but an omega. There’s nothing that will change that. If you had wanted to help, you should have done so six years ago.”

“That doesn’t mean this can’t be fixed.” Lobelia rises. 

“I know. You won’t be the one to do it, though.” She refills her watering can and finishes with her plants. How dare she? 

How dare she just expect to have Lobelia’s confidence when she threw such a thing off when Lobelia needed her?

How can she even pretend to care, when the woman failed to tell her a thing about her courtship? Her disastrous, wrong courtship. She doesn't pretend to be at all blameless for a single thing, but nor does she believe her mother’s concern for even a moment. It’s more about the Sackville-Baggins’ reputation than it is about saving Lobelia from the rather cold fate that surely awaits her as atonement for her dark deed. 

Her mother calls her, but Lobelia ignores her. She’s always been like this, the younger tells herself. She’s always been…

 

…

 

_ Cold. Lobelia’s hands shook from it as she untied the laces of her pinafore and let the soaking thing fall to the ground, quickly followed by her dress, turned into an undignified heap of sodden fabric. _

_ The fire wasn’t high enough for a tumble into a freezing stream, but Lobelia was not sure if she can manage lighting it with the tremors that make even stripping her boots from her cold feet and wiggling into a new housedress a challenge. _

_ Nevertheless, after a great deal of effort, she settled with a blanket in front of a much higher fire after an unfair amount of effort. The door opened quietly. Lobelia twisted around to look and see who it was and locked eyes with her mother. _

_ At twelve years old and still shivering, Camellia casted a critical over her daughter. _

_ “Don’t be so foolish next time,” she says before moving on. It’s not that she didn’t care, she just couldn’t bring herself to do the kind of caring most parents can.  _

 

...

 

Lobelia lets the spout of her can rise before walking inside, ignoring the still present hobbit. She doesn’t need Camellia’s help, pity, care, or anything else now.     
  



	10. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori does the thing.

THORIN

The zinging sound of a whetstone on the sharp metal edge of orcrist is a calming sound for Thorin. He’s set down his portfolio and taken the time to both put in a few hours of practice with Dwalin, Dori, Bifur, and a few of Dwalin’s more experienced soldiers and look to his weaponry. 

He pushes a strand of hair out of his face and resumes the steady slide of stone against metal two dozen more times before he sets it down before he pours oil onto a cloth and carefully shines and polishes his weapon. 

He considers the raven that arrived yesterday. According to the creature (much braver than most hobbits, apparently) he’s from the Took’s rookery. Bilbo never talked much about his relations, so Thorin is only aware that the head of the family is Hobbiton’s Alpha Prime and not much else.

The little note the raven brought is still in his pocket. It says “I am here and well”. Thorin cannot help but wonder if the message’s briefness is due to the form of travel that message or if Bilbo doesn’t wish to tell Thorin of what goes on. 

Probably a bit of both. Bilbo can and will hold his silence for a long time, maybe forever, if he wants. He’s done it before. Thorin still remembers what happened after the battle, how he had woken up from a sleep so deep he didn’t know how he could have possibly gotten there, only to be told that he just barely survived, that the hobbit was sleeping in another tent.

That had all been fine. Then they realized that the halfling had been lost among the many unconscious and barely alive laid out and resting in communal tents so long his company could not hope to find him; not with Oin busy with the worst injuries and elvhen healers and many of Thorin’s people injured themselves, including Dori (Thorin couldn’t bring himself to pass the job to the whole and hale Bifur), Dwalin, who has both lost a bit more ear and a few teeth in the back of his mouth, and Nori (his wound is a straightforward cut to the side, but he nearly bled out).

It’d taken them a week to find Bilbo, because he somehow wound up solely in the hands of healers who didn’t know who he was nor of his importance (that one’s a well kept secret, and putting out word that Thorin wishes to see the hobbit would have given them away)

By the time they found him, the amount of unconscious had gone down as dwarves, elves, and men either died or woke up and the communal tents had been broken down as all were moved back to Erebor on stretchers laid out on wagons (even elves. The Mirkwood is too dangerous to ship that many elvhen wounded through it.)

Bilbo remained asleep, chest faintly rising and falling while the mountain exerted large amounts of force to move on from the battle. Lately, Thorin’s been wondering what happens if the caravan returns to collect Bilbo and the hobbit does not want to leave. What would he do then? He told Dis he’d give Bilbo an out, but is he really prepared for the hobbit to take it? A shadow moves at the corner of his vision.

“Evening.”

“Hmm Dain’s safe, for now.” Nori hums into the dark cast by the low fire.

“But.”

“Someone was backing Linir. I’m just not sure who it is, but one of your friends knew of his existence.”

“How’s Dori?”

“Healing.” 

“You’re irritated tonight,” Thorin comments. He doesn’t bother with turning around, aware that Nori no more wishes to be watched now than he did when the two first met. As he slides orcrist back into its sheath, he hears the distinct quiet of being alone.

DORI

Bread is one of Dori’s favorite things to make. There’s something magical turning wet and dry ingredients into tiny pieces of edible creation. It’s an art form, in the dwarf’s opinion. As always, he starts with the first step.

Mix it. Dori runs the whisk around the bowl, following a pattern: large circle to little circle and back again, the commute from one to the other a gradual one. When the dough is thick enough, he pulls the large metal whisk out of the bowl and reflowers his hands. Then, he really gets to work. 

Pound it. Dori heaves the dough out of the bowl and drops it on the table, picks it up and does it again and again, making a large, slightly sticky and slightly damp mound.

Tear it. He pulls two baker’s dozen pieces off the main body one at a time, each a little smaller than what comfortably fits in the palm of his hand.

Roll it. He rolls the dough in his hand, creating miniatures of the original.

Place it. Each ball goes on a large pan, ready to be cooked in the heavy stone ovens at the back of the shop and shares the wall with the storage shelves. Through some intuition, Dori walks out to the door and opens it up, letting Bifur in. He seems surprised that Dori opened the door at all. As well he should be. The shop isn't open yet and the lanterns are still lit along the streets. 

Bifur follows him quietly through the shop to the back. Dori can feel his partner’s eyes on his limp.

“It won’t be staying forever, Bifur.”

“ _ Un _ .” he rumbles. The tension feels far too high as Dori puts the kettle on, and the two drink tea while the merchant finishes making dough balls. He makes a second and third tray and pulls the first one before inserting the other two with his long wooden paddle. 

He takes a seat next to Bifur.

“I’ve missed you,” he says into the silence. Bifur watches him, and Dori can almost see the uncertainty in his eyes. Dori leans over until their foreheads are resting together.

“It’s not your fault, you know.”

“ _ It is _ ,” he rumbles. Dori has a mental pause, because this thing they have could go in any direction, now. He recalls how, back when he and Bifur were both in the Blue Branch, he’d known omegas to take lovers among themselves. He himself had gotten a few invitations, but he’d turned them down. 

It is, after all, something frowned upon. He’s seen omegas beaten or killed or raped for taking an omega lover. He’d known better than to introduce something that would be viewed as a massive flaw into his overall behavior. It would have turned the whole army against its omegas. 

So Dori had done the best he could and made the responsible choice; he hid the action of his dwarrows. But the nights were long and colder than vengeance, too, and Dori had found himself thinking about Bifur, about what he might feel like not just surrounded by the shoddy fabric of a bad tent but also against a real bed or underneath a good blanket. 

It was the first time their relationship had become strained. Dori was convinced Bifur was thinking about the same things by the time he’d worked up the nerve to proposition him. Then Bifur had been injured, and there was no more time for such considerations. And there was no room for them later, because their lives were crowded with their homecoming and their adjustments, and their minds were far too busy handling the challenge of returning to the docility that comes outside of wartime.

Now they’re both years older and wiser and far better adjusted than they ever were before. Dori knows they run the risk of being killed; two omega war veterans who had seen the worst Erebor’s dwarrows had to offer cutting the last of their ties with their alpha counterparts? It’s grounds for a de facto hanging, though that bird’s got two broken wings and a severed neck in court.

He could do it though. He wants to. He shouldn’t. But he very much should. He angles his head down just enough to press his mouth against Bifur’s, who reacts exactly as Dori had hoped.


	11. Wreck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lobelia remembers things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Let me know what you think!

He seems… happier.

 _Happier than he was when you were there,_ a cold voice observes in her head.

As quiet as ever. More watchful, though. He takes a drink of whatever is in his glass and continues his mission to not speak for as long as possible. The widow he speaks with gets up to get more food. Another hobbit sits down. It goes on like this for a few hours, by which point quite literally everyone is drunk off their asses. Everyone but the most tolerant of hobbits, Bilbo, and Lobelia, that is.

For the first time in the evening, Bilbo is left alone. At this point, his gaze swings towards Lobelia. He wasn’t supposed to see her. She’d hidden better than that. How did he know she was here?

Twin orbs of deep brown fix her, the Prime in him so foreign that she can’t reconcile the hobbit she betrayed with the one who returned not long ago. The one who stares at her, dares her to speak. As far as the rest of Hobbiton is concerned, Lobelia’s avoidance is due to a failed courtship and the force with which she destroyed her own chances at success. But she knows, and he knows.

 _Well, you’ve done it. Don’t cower over it._ Her inner voice says. She raises her chin. She won’t be cowed. If he wishes to hold her actions over her head, then he can, but he won’t have her willingly eating the hook line and sinker with sinister looks and long stare-downs.

The drunk and dancing hobbits between the two do nothing to avert the problem. She has to do something about it. Slowly, she raises her tankard and takes a drink, never once breaking eye contact. The message is clear: _then do it._

He lifts the pipe that he’s had for the past half hour and takes a pull on it, eyebrows raising ever so slightly. Then, there’s a hobbitling scrambling to claim the empty seat of Bilbo’s lap, and the moment is lost.

“What did I tell you?” The old hobbit next to her says.

“A great many things, I imagine. Though none of the useful.” She snipes at her mum.  She can still feel Bilbo’s gaze on her, but a glance back reveals that he’s now… curious? What in Yavanna?

“Don’t show your face until you’re ready for the next step,” ah. She had said that. The past few days have been hard on Lobelia, between random snippets of advice and the strained tone their cold relationship has taken.

When she dreams, she can’t stop seeing his face. Can’t stop-

 

…

 

_The day was not a good one for a funeral. The clouds over Hobbiton were heavy and swollen, turning the air to much the same temperament, the warm temperature completed the miserable triangle and left them all wishing that the funeral was on any other day than this._

_Lobelia, like the rest of Hobbiton, turned out for the funeral of Belladonna. Her lively, scandalous nature having flown the coop of her body, the remaining husk was one of the saddest things Lobelia had ever seen._

_This, though, was topped by her one son. On the surface, he appears okay, every tendril of emotion tucked carefully beneath that little shell. He stood stiff and silent, waiting patiently for the ceremony to commence. He seemed to be unaffected by the heat._

_An hour later, Bilbo rose from his seat and, at the silent bidding of a hundreds of pairs of eyes, laid an orchid on the simple oak casket. He, as the closest to Belladonna, was the last one; Lobelia had given her own pale yellow and white lily some time ago; she hadn’t been that close to Belladonna; barely knew her, in fact. But she’s related through her mother, so she’d been about halfway through._

_It’s as Bilbo returned to his seat that Lobelia truly saw his face for just a moment; it was as though ever placed flower from every hobbit hand stole just a bit more of his warmth. His face was ashen gray and, despite the weather, Lobelia was sure that, should she take his hand now- in comfort, that far back- it would be ashy._

_He was just thirty, but appeared to have the years and the sorrow of an eighty year old._

_“Don’t stare,” her mother said. Lobelia immediately withdrew her gaze, but not before meeting his for just a fleeting moment._

…

 

And then she had come and wrecked everything. He had seemed to be doing better before she’d tried courting him. He was quiet- frighteningly so, yes- but hale and whole nonetheless.

She has a moment where she wishes she’d paid attention and accepted that it wasn't meant to be before flinging the thought from her head. She made her bed; it’s time to lie in it.

“Did you hear what I said, mother?” she says, turning to the older hobbit. Camellia looks at her; she has an impeccable memory. She always remembers, Lobelia knows.

“I don’t need your help.” She leans in and whispers. Then she’s rising and disappearing back into the shadows, headed home.


	12. Circle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bifur stumbles on to something interesting.

THORIN

 

Thorin throws up his buckler in time to take a blow from- and he thinks he has this right- Grasper. It glances off the shield, and Thorin’s ears flinch from the high sound of it.

“So…” Dwalin huffs as he attacks again, Keeper to Orcrist. Again, the flats slide together, instead of sticking and holding there. 

“What-” Thorin comes in with his own attack.

“Will you do-” He doesn’t need to finish the rest of the question.

“Wait. They seem passive enough, if they didn’t get behind their best chance,” he says as they circle each other, “so it’s plausible that they stand to gain either way, in which case-” Orcrist meats Dwalin’s own buckler, the flat near gliding along the metal and just barely missing Dwalin’s face. 

“They aren’t necessarily a threat,” he says as he backs up. Suddenly, they straighten and bow to each other. Dwalin turns to his new recruits. 

“That’s how it’s done!” There’s enough distance that no one heard their mid-combat chat, so he yells it. 

“And the next time one of you thinks its smart to wear your sword out by clanging the blades against each other, just remember that the more you do so, the shorter your sword’s life is!” It seems the habit of all new recruits to smack the sharpest part against someone else’s own edge, but it’s supposed to be the flat of the blade whenever possible. 

Thorin bows his had in farewell and strides off, Orcrist already back in its sheath. Today is Jeudi, and Closed Court ended over two hours ago. With the late afternoon sun being channelled down into the mountain, everything seems a little more golden in the marketplace and darker outside of it. 

The days have begun to bleed together, he realizes. They seem to be in a period of peace- no one’s tried to kill he and his for more than a mois, which is rather odd. Though he supposes that, with his biggest threat currently being the two who knew of Linir’s schemes, it makes sense. 

He decides that he can take Fili and Kili down to the stables and see where they are with their riding. Yeah. He could do that. Mahal knows he never gets the time for them anymore. Maybe Dis could come to, if she’s done with her own Open Court duties for the day. 

 

BILBO

 

The season has begun to change. It’s disturbing, because the last he checked it was spring. The frosty air prickled in his lungs every morning and ran over his bare feet. Now, it’s not that cold anymore. The planting is done. The watering began a while ago. The weather is turning.

Bilbo walks among the great Took garden, wondering what happened between Lobelia and her mum. Wondering if what he saw had something to do with all that she chose to do to Bilbo. 

You’ll have to say something eventually. A voice in his head observes. Yes, he will. 

He’ll have to tell his grandfather what happened. Tell him what she did. As much as he’d rather not, Lobelia is not the type to stop until something makes her. To allow her to go unpunished… is to potentially leave someone else to his fate. 

The first part anyways. 

He doubts every hobbit will magically make to Erebor as untouched as he was.

He takes a deep breath. 

The question now, he supposes, is when?

When should he say something? Before he leaves, of course. Well back from that deadline? Or pushing on it? He goes back inside. There’s coffee to be had. 

 

BIFUR

 

Dori’s warm, Bifur notices as a heavy, calloused hand wanders up and down Dori’s side, slowly feeling the different scars. Some of them are so thin Bifur cannot even feel them against the tips of his fingers. Others are thick and raised enough that he doesn’t know how he could not feel them.

The dwarf is sleeping now, his eyes tightly closed in the dark, breathing heavy and even, undone hair laying in shiny disarray across the pillow. He has an array of scars across his back and torso; burn marks from forging of baking, old war wounds, token cuts and punctures picked up from practicing with live weapons or being chased by dogs during the latter part of his training. 

You wouldn’t be able to tell, just by looking at him, how marked this dwarf is. Not all of them are ones he acquired when he was old enough for them, either. Bifur can see a round, circular burn scar is visible on one of his biceps. It’s the same size as a pipe, as though someone had held it against the dwarf’s skin. 

It’s old- decades old- so Bifur’s betting it happened before Dori ever moved out of his parent’s house. He lets his hand slip downwards, over his padded stomach. There’s a horizontal scar from a dog’s tooth sliding across it after it bit.

He keeps returning to the burn, though, because he thinks its familiar.

_ That’s because it is, stupid _ , Lithir says, haughty until the end. And, suddenly, Bifur does know. 

 

…

 

“I’m fine, Oin,” a rough voice grunted. Bifur was following a scent trail, and that swirl of tension laced adrenaline left a pathway that led Bifur right to his Prime’s doorway. Against his better judgement- people don’t like snooping omegas- he peeks in, and what he sees surprises.

His prince is leaned up against the wall, clenching his face and trying not to give away how much it hurts. Bifur understands it. He was the prince. He was supposed to be strong. He was an alpha. He was supposed to be invincible. One day, he’d be Prime. He was supposed to be perfect.

Perfect, however, doesn’t mean immortal, so that’s where Bifur found his prince: sitting bare-chested against a wall and letting Oin stitch him. On the trapezius that Bifur could see was a round burn mark, years old, about the size of someone’s pipe.

 

…

 

Oh. That’s right. But what’s Thorin doing with that exact same mark? Who burned the crown prince? And why?

 


	13. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin made a different sort of sacrifice, all those years ago.

NORI

Where’s the line for involvement? Is it passively watching? Is it definitive planning? Is it suggesting without intent? As the dwarf shadows one of the voices he heard some weeks ago, he wonders just how much Thorin will blame on them.

They knew yes, but if they had stopped the problem in its infancy, a different plot would have developed. If they had stopped the problem in its infancy, Thorin would not have the power that comes from being wronged in one’s own home, over one’s own rule. If they had stopped the problem in its infancy, Thorin would not be awaiting a letter from Bilbo, and it’s all over the Company how smitten their Prime is with him. Then again, if they had stopped the problem in its infancy, Bilbo wouldn’t have ever been scarred in the first place.

Which brings Nori back to his question: how involved is involved? As the dwarf walks silently through the shadows between the stalls of the market that opens at night, he finds himself grabbed.

Well, that’s a bit unexpected.

The dwarf drops his weight and throws himself into the force, meeting a stomach with the hard plates enforcing the shoulders of his coat. The dwarf grunts. He wasn’t expecting the fight in the smallish omega.

A knife of Nori’s is glinting and pressed against the other dwarf’s throat as Nori backs them both into the shadows.

“Name?” Nori says in a more gravelly voice than he actually owns. With his hood up, he doubts the dwarf knows what he looks like. Best not give him what Nori sounds like.

“Not important,” the dwarf pants, “there’s… something… with the crops!”

“What about the crops?”

“They’re all gonna die!” he says, finally seeming to have regained speed.

“They’re not going to plant in time… line the seeds up… rain washes them away cause they’re too close to the soil. No food…” riots, Nori thinks. Rioting is what the dwarves want. Or not. There are massive storehouses.

“Who are you?”

“N-n-not important!” Nori makes to drag him closer, but the dwarf stomps on his foot, causing Nori to jump back. Those steel-toed boots are the kind that break shit. Then, the two are off, but the other dwarf joins the throng, and Nori looses him.

If they lose their food, they’ll have to rely on the storehouses. If the storehouses catch fire, they’re all on shit ocean without a damn boat. Nori melts back into the shadow. He’s seen the other dwarf before, but he doesn’t recognize the voice; smart cookie. Now the spy-master will have to find him, and that’s a challenge. In the meantime…

Nori makes his way back out of the market.

He needs to know more.

BILBO

Who’s more responsible for Bilbo’s imprisonment? Lobelia, who did the deed, who now wastes away over the anticipation- the blatant fear- of Bilbo’s actions, or Camelia, who Bilbo is now certain was not the lovely, if rigid, woman, she’s made out to be?

Bilbo turns on his side, this question causing the kind of rigidity to his body that he hasn’t had since the journey to Erebor. He knows he has to say something, but the question now is what? If he tells only what happened, the whole of the blame goes to Lobelia, but it’s more than Lobelia’s pushing. It was more than that. It’s always been more than that.

He’d have to confirm it, though. He’d have to get some kind of confession from Camellia. He’d have to make her lose her shit just long enough to get a confession. But can he? Camellia has an iron will and, as it’s turning out, an iron heart. There’s a good chance he won’t be able to budge her.

It seems he’ll need to come up with a plan. He wishes he had Nori with him. The dwarf would know exactly what to do.

BIFUR

If anyone knows what Thorin got that scar for, it’d be Dwalin. The two have been best friends for a long time. Bifur makes his way to the stands to watch Dwalin finish beating the shit out of new recruits.

As they leave, utterly dead and wrung out from practice, Bifur quietly steps into view. Dwalin turns his heavy, tattooed head and gazes up at him, a question on his face. then he makes his way out.

When the two meet up in Dwalin’s own office, the Bifur begins to rapidly sign at him.

“That… is odd,” Dwalin finally says, but Bifur can see that he has an idea, and that the idea angers him. The dwarf abruptly excuses himself. Bifur goes back to Dori.

THORIN

He can see, from the moment their eyes meet, that Dwalin has uncovered something, and he’s not happy about it. He closes his portfolio and lifts his eyes to Dwalin’s.

“Did your grandfather burn you?” he says, and everything utterly stills in Thorin. No one was supposed to know. When had he found out? How? Who could have seen that scar, other than Oin?                                                                                                                       

“Thorin…”          

“Yes.” he confirms, raising his chin and daring Dwalin to step to him in a way that hasn't happened in years. As close as the two are, this is not something he chose to reveal, and he doesn’t want to talk about it, or remember it. Too late for that, though.

…

_“They’re all out there to kill me,” he whispered, fingering the stem of his pipe. As always, Thror looks the part of a king, dark coat offset by off-white furs that press against his skin. His boots, like Thorin’s, are heavy, worked leather, steel tipped, soled, and heeled with a raven’s crest on each toe and the sharp turns of geometric swirls elsewhere. His hair was long and white, his beard down to his stomach. Both were neatly tamed an hour ago, but he’d pulled most of the braids out now, so they were a bit wild._

_“Who, grandfather?” Thorin could feel a heavy, twisting sense of dread and foreboding in his stomach. Currently, the person plotting against the king was Thorin himself._

_“Them, boy,” the Prime said, shoving a hand through his hair. “The ones who don’t like me. The ones who watch me. Them .” The frantic, low tone of his voice let Thorin know that this was all about to go to shit. He had to do something. He had to calm him down before he tore out of this bedchamber and went screaming accusations at everyone and anyone._

_Thorin takes a stepped forward, arms out. He was not quite touching- not yet- but he would. It’s all in the timing._

_“Grandfather, no one’s out to get you- not anymore than they were fifty years ago.” Fifty years ago, Thorin was a twenty something boy, new to everything but his anger._

_“Yes, they are! Fool boy!” Thorin’s too old to be a boy, too young to be a man, if you discount war. Then Thror freezes, appraising Thorin._

_“It’s you,” he whispers, awe and betrayal in his voice and on his face._

_“No grand-”_

_“IT’S YOU!” he screamed._

_“It’s really not!”_

_“THEN PROVE IT!!”_

_“Anything,” Thorin breathed, because he was this close. He is so near to his goals. He couldn’t let this count he-_

_“FINE.” The old dwarf took a single, powerful step forward and pressed the lip of the bowl of his pipe against Thorin’s trapezius, burning through the thin, loose tunic he’d worn to practice today. He’d been there when a courier trotted up to him and whispered quietly that his Grandfather had called._

_His first instinct was to punch Thror in the stomach._

_The second one was to slit his damn throat. He couldn’t, though, because he was to convince him that he was there, that he was on Thror’s side, that he won’t hurt the old Prime. It hurts more than he thought it would, but he holds still. The both of them do- five seconds, ten, eleven-_

_The bowl falls away, and Thorin saw what looked like peace in Thror’s eyes. He turned away._

_“Leave me,” Thorin went, getting to his room so fast that no one noticed that he has a circle of burned flesh and fabric._

…

It only takes a second to remember all that, but it’s potent all the same.

“You didn’t say anything,”

“I didn’t need to, and I’m not discussing this.” Dwalin can see that he’s got Thorin cornered, and the Prime never does well like that, so he nods and steps back. Thorin gives him a last, steady gaze before bending his head back to his task again.


	14. Not Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lobelia's a bit scared, Thorin's a bit peeved.

BILBO

 

This has gone on for too long, Bilbo thinks as he wanders the market, trailing Begonia. The caravan will be back through at the end of Autumn. He’s trying to figure out what he will give those friends that come with it. 

“What about this one?” A dreamcatcher glints in the sun, copper webbing woven through a dark wooden hoop, while feathers and beads of glass and knots hang down in strings. It twists gently in the faint breeze.

He honestly cannot decide who would want it, though. If he had to guess, he’d say Dori, but it’s the guessing that tells him he’s better off leaving it where it is. He feels eyes and subtly turns his head, catching a glance of Camellia.

Right. Too long. He hadn’t expected Camellia to interfere, nor had he expected her to play such a large roll in Lobelia’s rather compromised state of mind. Now she is there sporadically. In the market, along the lane, peaking at Bilbo from the windows of whatever neighbor she’s visiting. It’s quite haunting. 

The strangest part is that Bilbo cannot figure out why. It could be because Bilbo now poses a threat beyond anything Lobelia’s ever encountered, and Camellia wishes to curtail Bilbo’s actions, or it could be because Camellia’s own image is at risk, now. After all, no hobbit in their right mind sells out another, and there were but two things that could have had Lobelia so uncontrolled that she’d sell Bilbo out.

One is their failed courtship. He remembers how… wrong it had seemed, after a while. Half the time, lobelia was grey in the face with some kind of illness. It was as though, by the power of sheer and denied want she was falling ill and near her death with it. 

If he’s being honest, he should have gotten help- for Lobelia as well as himself.

The other is Camellia herself. The woman can be colder than the Fell Winter in private, and Bilbo is one of the few hobbits to know this. He wonders if her tendency to control pushed Lobelia beyond herself. If maybe he should hurry up and put Lobelia out of this secret misery. If maybe he’s saving her by telling, and damning her by not. 

Even with her own daughter, Camellia is controlling; had been for a long time. With a secret like that, it must be murder; she’d be perpetually bound to do anything Camellia told her to, all in the name of maintaining her name and her image. 

Propriety is a scary thing in the hands of dysfunctional hobbits, apparently. He wonders how this thing got so messy. 

He stays quite morose until they find themselves at the end of their shopping trip. In the end, Bilbo chose a spool of fine copper wire of a lighter shade than what he’s seen in Erebor (for Bifur) and a box of tea that will come out red when it brews (for himself).

When he bids Begonia goodbye and deposits his new belongings in his room, Bilbo exits the smial through the backdoor and walks back around to the front. He sets off at a quick, but unhurried pace down the wide semi-paved dirt avenue, headed to the less populated Old Forest. On a hill near it is the twin graves of Belladonna and Bungo Baggins. 

On the way, he passes through the market once more and buys a couple of flowers (one for each of them). The sounds of life fade from the mid afternoon air as the hobbit drifts away from the masses, keenly aware of a silent follower. He reaches the graves and quickly lays a flower on each of them, trying to get that part of the visit taken care of before-

“You should just do it,” He turns to face Lobelia.

“Is it because you’re tired of waiting or because you’re tired of your mum?” One side of Lobelia's lip curls.

“That’s none of your business,” Bilbo steps closer, directly into Lobelia’s face.

“She’s quite the sneak, your mum. It’s like she knows something.”

“Don’t play, Bilbo. You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” she says, and, for a moment, it’s like she’s afraid for Bilbo.

“Have you ever been outside of hobbiton?” Bilbo asks pleasantly, as though they’re just making conversation.

“I- no.” She says. It’s clear she won’t win this one, no matter what Camelia’s done.

“Ah. Well, it’s beautiful. And ugly. The contrast is striking. I went to Erebor, by the way, and if you look up in the throne room, all you see is a great arching ceiling. There are great runes embedded in the stone, and to either side are balconies for dwarves. Very majestic and lovely. Then I saw an omega with his tongue cut out to make him unwanted by most alphas, with the exception of the one his alpha father picked out for him.” Lobelia’s face pales. That could very well have been Bilbo. He leans forwards.

“Don’t tell me what I do or don’t know.”

“She’s… she’s not normal,” Lobelia says, trying again to warn Bilbo; make him make a move. 

“Neither are you,”

“Yeah, but I’m not okay with it,” she says.

“Could have fooled me,”

“Pl-” her face is twisted, like she’s in pain.

“What happened, Lobelia?”

“I don’t know, but she’s not sane, Bilbo. Don’t drag this out. Just do it. Or I will,” Lobelia says. 

Ooh, now that’s different.

  
  


THORIN

 

Thorin’s grateful for the lighter-than-normal Jeudi. He’s enough time to spend lunch and the afternoon with his nephews. Apparently they’ve discovered the concept of quiet games, because there is not screaming games of tag or hit-each-other-with-anything-you-can-reach. Thorin unlocks the door to his apartments and steps inside to find the toys he’d gotten them a few days ago. 

Trinkets (two tops) in hand, he exits his own quarters and finds his way by memory more than sight to the normal dwelling place of his riotous nephews… only to find them passed out in the midst of most of their toys, the two chests having been dragged from their places and mostly emptied. 

Their practice swords have been abandoned on the floor as well. Armor was shed and not put away. Two sets of gauntlets catch his eyes. They’ve progressed rather far. He’ll have to join them- give them a real run for their money. For a moment, he just gives himself the satisfaction of gazing at them for a while. 

His heirs are blonde and brunette, respectively. Fili, though he has yet to present, looks to be an omega, while Kili is an alpha. The both of them are too young to be learning about Open and Closed Court, laws and such. He kneels down and picks up first Kili, in one arm, and Fili, in the other. 

With the both of them settled, he takes a seat in a chair and begins to rock slowly with one foot. Bilbo has met them maybe two times, and they’ve both taken to him. The half hour has echoed through the mountain by the time the door opens again, revealing his sister. By this time, Thorin, himself, is all but asleep.

Dis takes the other chair, and the family spends the time for the afternoon. 

…

 

A knock on the door shatters the gentle silence. Thorin, waking up immediately, quickly passes his still sleeping nephews to Dis before answering the door. One moment, he was preparing for what would probably be a mundane thing that still requires his attention. The next, he’s pacing down the hall to his rooms and, once there, donning his own set of gauntlets. Behind him, he barks orders to the courier.

“Get Captain Fundin. Tell him to meet me on the administration floor.” The kid doesn’t wait, instead bolting off as fast as his legs will carry him. 

The dwarf king has had enough. It’s not hard to see that, either. He is not rushed, but moves powerfully and quickly all the same as he all but glides up the wide steps of the main stair, passing all manner of dwarrow until he’s on the administration floor. Waiting is Dwalin, pulled from guard duty and apparently spoiling for a fight. 

With his best friend at his back, he walks in and throws open the door to the agricultural section and finds himself face to face with Ryne, son of Syne, accomplished scribe and possible conspirator.

“Ryne.”

“My king,” the dwarf says as he rises and bows at the waist.

“How’s the planting going?”

“On target,”

“Not according to my people.”

“Well-”

“There should be a fiscal copy of everything that’s happened. Get it and follow me.”

Five minutes later, Ryne is reading off numbers and Thorin is comparing them to the average numbers when they take a small elevator down to the ground floor and leave the mountain. Thorin, Dwalin, and Ryne make their way up to the lowest row of seeds, already planted and just starting to grow. They’re too far apart. Of course. Of course you can’t plant them too close to the soil; the problem would have been discovered in later spring. 

But if you plant them too far apart, then there’s less there. 

“Ryne.”

“My Lord?”

“Your numbers are right, but your plants are wrong.” 

“I-” the deep tinge of fear that blows across Thorin’s senses tells him all he needs to know. 

“Why planted this section?”

“I’m not sure, My Lord.”

“THESE ARE OUR EXPORTS!!” Thorin shouts at him, turning on the other dwarf. He catches the flinch, but doesn’t back off. 

“THIS IS OUR LIVELIHOOD AND OUR FOOD. THE MEN OF DALE DO NOT BUY METAL WHEN THEIR BELLIES ARE EMPTY. So, who. Planted. This. Section.” He said, utterly calm for the last part.

“I’ll find out.” Sufficiently cowed, Thorin jerks his head, and the other dwarf departs.

“What are you really angry about?” Dwalin says as he steps closer.

“Where’s Nori at?”

“Following up on your guests.”

“Hmm.” Thorin moves back to the door, irritated and keyed up. He had thought the plant problem would be over with inspections to make sure they’d been planted deep enough. Apparently not. 


	15. Cycle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is back to discovering plots on his life, Nori confronts Dwalin, Bilbo speaks with Gerontius.

THORIN

His throat hurts. Burns in fact. He carefully holds his own hair back as he coughs up another mouthful of… something. He should have known it wasn’t over. In terms of sabotage, a smaller crop yield is relatively tame. It’s only fate’s propensity for runs of bad luck, rather than a bit here and a bit there, that had him so worked up about it. 

There is almost nothing more telling of the near future than the first bit of bad fortune. Ryne is being… questioned, Thorin will say, but he’s no more than a puppet, if that. He’s secretly hoping they have the wrong dwarf. Ryne’s rather good at his job, after all. 

So now, here Thorin is, at just past the twenty second bell, puking his guts up into a chamber pot. It’s purple. Fun. Well, if it’s coming up his throat, it probably went down his throat, too, so he tries to remember what he ate and when. After five minutes (and a second round of puking), he concludes that he’s only eaten at common meals. 

Now he has to figure out what it is and who poisoned him. Slowly, he pushes himself up and stands still for a moment, checking for more nausea. When he finds the feeling gone, he moves quickly; he needs to find Oin; tired as he is, one does not just go to sleep after throwing up purple stomach stuff. 

BILBO

The first cool wind blows across his back. The rains of the summer are all but over, and the harvest has begun. In the late evening, when all hobbits have gone home, and their departure from the fields was followed quickly by the threshing of wheat, the beating of beanstalks, and the storing of the first fields of fruit.

Bilbo, once more, collects his pipe and a tray of tea before making his way into the small sitting room where he had first sat with Gerontius. His grandfather, as usual, is smoking his pipe. 

The younger hobbit sets out the cups and bags and pours the water. 

“This is not a normal chat,” Gerontius guesses. Bilbo looks away, down at his pipe, and begins to stuff it.

“I…” he says when he has taken the first, fortifying drag and released it in three smoke rings, each one smaller than the last.

“I have something to tell you. About leaving,” he has thought of nothing but this day, but, now that it’s here, finds himself stumbling over his words.

“I figured as much,” Gerontius says, Bilbo does not look up as he adds sugar and a bit of milk to his tea and takes it in hand. 

“Do you recall my courtship?” He can feel a look burning into the side of his face.

“Yes.”

“Do you recall how it ended?”

“No.”

“She… she told the dwarven traders where I’d be. What I’d be doing.” It seems as though all the life has been sucked out of the room.

“But there’s more,” Bilbo looks at him sharply. How had he-

“One does not simply spend months with sort of secret and not say anything without there being something more.”

Bilbo nods, forces down his apprehension, and continues on with it.

“There’s something wrong with Camelia. I don’t know what it is, but it had something to do with… this,” he says, finally, waving a hand in the air to indicate the entirety of the situation. Gerontius sits back and sighs as he pinches the bridge of his nose in his hand. 

“And you want…”

“I don’t know. To get to the bottom, but…” Bilbo trailed off.

“But to do that, you need me not to say anything.”

“Yes.”

“But you told me in the first place because…”

“I think the secrecy is hurting the situation more than anything.” Gerontius sighs and gives Bilbo a Very Irritated Look. 

“Give me until tomorrow. I need to think about this.” Bilbo nods, takes the last dregs of tea in his mouth and rises with his pipe and tray, leaving Gerontius with naught but his own cup and saucer. He exits the room.

NORI

He watches Nori now, when Nori is there to be watched. It’s never obvious, but it is there- Dwalin’s dark eyes following him when he is out in the open and deliberately ignoring him when he isn’t. Even on the edge of… whatever they’re doing, Dwalin still will not look at Nori if Nori does not wish to be looked at; one never knows if he’s sneaking or simply dwelling on the edges of life.

In a fit of curiosity, he broke into Dwalin’s war room and walked around, just looking. His head craned back to see the top edges of maps and weapons hung on the wall. He didn’t dare touch anything on the table. Nor did he move the chairs. It was quite entertaining regardless.

He has to stifle a laugh every time someone says Dwalin’s all muscle, no brains; if only they saw. 

Later, Dwalin gave him a look, as if to say, “I know what you’ve been up to”. Nori smirked and took a drink of his ale that appeared to be very long, but he didn’t drink more than a mouthful. 

Now, he sits watching Dwalin, unobserved by the big dwarf as he gets a little peace from cataloguing everything he can find on the subject of his gaze. The dwarf sits in his tunic and leggings at the side of his forge, where weapons he’s already made hang carefully from the walls and amass in bins. 

In front of him is a grindstone, and, on the other side of him is a couple of older axes. He must be restoring them for incoming soldiers. He’s heard that Dwalin’s latest group of carrion food is actually rather promising.

Nori watches in silence and near invisibility as sparks begin to fly. It’s always amazed him how alphas can have so much care for their weapons and none at all for the omegas around them. Nori has long known that Dwalin does not belong to that particular class, though. 

A cough announces his presence after the wheel has stopped and the newly sharpened axe has been taken care of.

“Nori.” As much as he’d love to talk- to linger in banter and conversation, to make light of the evening, there is something he must question.

“Thorin said it wasn’t an accident.” There’s only one It that Nori does not know the whole of. Dwalin does not bother with picking up another axe.

“It wasn’t.”

“But you didn’t kill anyone.” Dwalin knows what Nori wants, in this instant. He wants clarity. He wants facts. He wants to move on.

“No, I didn’t. I would have revealed myself, that way. So I knew that, if I was going to end that particular threat to you, I’d need to find someone who could remain calm- who could keep their scent under control and at the same time understand the gravity of the situation.

“Dori,” Dwalin nods his bald and tattooed head. Nori’s taken enough steps to be right by Dwalin now.

“You know, I always thought it odd when Dori just seemed to wake up from the Sleep one day and pop back into life.” The Sleep, or Long Sleep, is what the dwarves call it when something takes away your mind for hours or days or months or sometimes years on end. It’s what they say when grief or death steals the intelligence right out of your mind and the soul right out of your body. Dori had it, a long time ago. Dori-

…

_ Would never be the same, Nori knew. He didn’t care about that part, though. What did he expect when his brother had gone off to war like so many others? What he cared about was having a brother at all. _

_ In the dark of a drawn curtain and a lack of candle, Nori wrestles with Dori to keep him from hurting himself. _

_ “DORI WAKE UP!!” He didn’t know what it was, then. He didn’t know what was happening. But, in the night, his brother’s tossings and turnings had woken up Nori in a way ever omega lives in fear of. _

_ He can’t decide which is worse: waking up to being jumped in your bed or waking up to your brother having a nightmare from which he cannot wake. In the morning, when Nori and Dori both were very much bruised, the younger had looked into the older’s eyes and knew exactly what Dori had brought home with him from his days in the Blue Branch. _

_ He prayed to Laverni, the goddess of thieves. He prayed to Mahal, the maker of dwarves, and he prayed to Aries, the god of war that the Long Sleep would be very short indeed, because he and Ori, who still did not know what happened, could not make it like this.  _

_ Months after that first prayer and just hours after the last one, Nori had come home to find the kitchen overrun with an awake Dori. He did not linger at the table but pulled soft, warm loaves of bread from the oven.  _

_ It was one of the best moments of Nori’s life, knowing that his brother was back enough to bake, was awake enough for his nightmares to be distinct things with edges, rather than a long, blurry cycle.                       _

...

Nori, after that, had offered a thousand prayers of thanks (he still does, when he feels he’s forgetting himself). He never quite figured out how his brother had come back, though he’d had his suspicions.

“Did you?” Dwalin asks. Nori blinks back to the moment. 

“Yes…” he looks away here, then steels himself.

“And thank you.”

“For what?”

“The return of my brother.” Then Nori is gone, slipping through the door Dwalin hadn’t realized he’d entered from and hurrying off into the dark.                                


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gerontius comes to a decision. Nori does his thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this is late, guys. For those of you who are reading other works of mine, nothing is ready, so I will update when I can. Some Bifur/Dori in there for you guys, too.

BILBO

 

Bilbo swallows, chest tight with anxiety and anticipation. He forces his breathing to stay slow and calm as he joins his grandfather in the small parlour where the two tend to take tea together. 

“Bilbo,” Gerontius says, and the hobbit can see the heaviness of all he has told so far.

“Grandfather.” Bilbo takes his usual seat and pours the hot water over the usual tea. A few minutes pass before he pulls the baggy out and the sugar and milk in.

“No hobbit has ever done this in recent book memory. Not in my generation, nor my grandfather’s generation, nor in his grandfather’s generation. A few of my more trusted scholars are combing through old archives, looking for an incident similar to this one. If they should find anything applicable to any of the crimes Lobelia could be charged for, know that it will weigh in on my decision.” Bilbo nods and waits, taking a quiet sip of tea.

“That being said, I doubt anything will be found, so I and the council will hold a private investigation of this. What happens after that, I cannot say.” Bilbo nods. This is… this is good. This is what he’s supposed to do.

 

THORIN

 

They can’t figure out who poisoned his food, and it’s driving Dis mad with worry. Of course, it’s also driving Thorin mad with worry, because Thorin knows a couple of heirs who might not make it through a night of fever and vomiting. So, there’s always that.

Two days after the fact, and Thorin is so done with everyone. His counsel has been advised to watch their food, and Thorin pinned each of them with an icy gaze, but not one of them changed their scent. Too bad, really. That would have wrapped things up nicely. Thorin bends his head back to his meal, smelling carefully before ingesting.

“I suppose we could come up with a new tactic,” Nori groused as he, too tucked into the venison.

“Bombur gave me a list of when everyone’s on and off shift,” Thorin said, setting down his fork and reaching for his portfolio to unearth just such a list. He hands it over to Nori, already having made a copy in preparation. A second goes to Dwalin, to his left.

“Wonder what the grievance is this time,” Dwalin muses as he takes a drink from his tankard. 

 

BIFUR

 

Bifur’s finding hard not to fixate on Dori’s scar. They’re in a training ring now, playing on the spinning stones with a group Dwalin trained a few years ago. They’re neck and neck with them. One of the weighted stones is rising as Bifur puts shoulder to sternum and straight trucks a dwarf down into a dark crack, only to be knocked in himself not long after by a flying body.

As soon as he disappears over the edge, he curls into a ball and braces against the force of colliding into the springy, loose net. The bounces pan out like ripples, and he sits up when he’s hardly moving an inch. There are other dwarves down here and, like them, Bifur rolls to his hands and knees and makes for the exit, carefully avoiding the holes in their false ceiling. 

At each movement, he grips the net as he goes, aware that the moving floor beneath him is constantly shifting his center of gravity. As he’s crawling around the edge of the hole, Bifur hears a roar of pain. Fear twists in his chest, so when another weighted stone begins to move, Bifur starts to bounce up and down the net, working up the kinetic energy needed to jump and be caught by the moving rock and propelled up into the arena proper. 

Fear and excitement pumps through his veins as he looks around and sees that there are three dwarves attacking Dori at once and that his lover’s favoring a leg. He knows that the rules of the game requires him to stand back (technically, he’s required to stay out of the arena, but Dori didn’t sound okay), but he inches closer anyways, watching for that dreaded moment when alpha-beta-omega play turns bad and violently out of control. It’s a risk they run every time they play on the spinning stones, or in arena, really.

It seems to have been a false alarm, though, because, soon enough, Dori’s free of his opponents, and two have been shoved down a dark hole, the third thrown nearly three yards. Not long after that, the game is one, with Dori as one of the victors. Bifur, who has since made it ‘round the edge and stood with the other emerging losers, picks up a trot across the treacherous landscape.

Rapidly, he starts to sign for all he’s worth and then-

“It’s alright, Bifur. I just landed on it wrong. Come on. We can go see Oin, if you like, but I know how to take care of this.” Bifur knows damn well that he knows, but it’s still only the silent plea to not go to the old medic that has the two heading back to Dori’s dwelling. Only when Dori has been relieved of his own weight (that Bifur helped with), that the old warrior presses his scarred head into Dori’s shirted shoulder.

“I am fine, Bifur.”

He pulls back and signs again.

Forgive me if I don’t immediately take your word for it.

Dori huffs a laugh.

“There should be ice in the box, love.” Bifur quickly fetches it and a thin cloth, both of which are applied to the hip.

“I’ll be fine in a few weeks,” Dori assures him. Bifur runs his thumb across the back of a broad hand. Vendredi is drawing to a close as Bifur leaves Dori to go up to his room. He pulls out the great iron pot and hangs it above a fire that had been banked and pours water into it. Next, he drags out the great wood-and-steel-ringed tub. As he waits for the water to boil, he gets the crutches Dori had to use a few years back and brings them to the silver haired dwarf.

Slowly and carefully, the two omegas make it up the stairs and into the bedroom. Dori, out of breath, takes a moment, and as he does, Bifur gets chair for him. As Dori catches his breath, Bifur works his light armour off, exposing the still-damp, sweaty tunic beneath. He kneels and works the boots off, skillfully detaching the metal buckles before moving onto the laces at the neck. 

He drops kisses as he goes while Dori runs his hand through thick and crazy salt-and-pepper hair. It takes them much longer to get Dori undressed to his leggings, but by then the water’s hot enough to pour into the tub. When he turns back to Dori, silver hair has been let loose to fall down his back and over strong shoulders. 

Dori works the laces of his smalls and slides both garments carefully over his strained hip muscles and down his legs. He grabs his crutch and pushes himself up and, with Bifur’s help, stands in the tub, naked, water around his knees. Bifur is a bit awed, even as he finds the block of alkaline salt, animal, and vegetable fats that they use for soap. He hands it and a rough rag to Dori before going to fetch more water. 

 

NORI

 

A few days after their last conversation, Nori finds himself with nothing to do. All his people are busy watching his targets, but no one has moved enough for the spymaster himself to be there. With all that time on his hands, he does what seems to be his new favorite past time: stalking Dwalin. 

It’s Vendredi, which means training day. Nori emerges from hiding to work with him in the early morning before the heat of the majority of dwarven bodies has warmed the air. With them is Dori, Ori,Thorin, most of Dwalin’s generals, the Ri brothers, Dis, and several of Thorin’s more active council members and higher ranking officials, and his two heirs. Not one of them will speak of politics on this day, despite the amassment of politicians. Most of them fight in pairs and switch partners. It’s nice.

After that, Dwalin leaves and heads to a smaller arena. He begins to haul out dummies and set them up for training a group of recruits rather far in their journey from dwarfling to soldier. Nori watches from the shadows as Dwalin has each of them working on their weaknesses.

By the time he’s done, it’s mid afternoon, and Dwalin goes for food. He begins to shove the sustenance into his mouth. At first, Nori is confused at why Dwalin is hurrying so when he abruptly turns off into a room Nori knows he meets with his generals in. Ah. 

Dwalin hasn’t eaten anything in front of hardly anyone since Thorin was coughing up purple poison. No one’s trying to follow that path. Nori’s fairly positive that, had Thorin been a regular (if powerful) alpha, he would have fallen to that poison.

The meeting takes long enough that Nori has business to attend to in the middle of waiting for Dwalin to finish. When he comes back, Dwalin is down in the forges, working on a new axe. Nori wonders if he’d be averse to company, but duty calls (again), so that will have to wait. 

He walks away, quiet and unnoticed in the dark.


	17. Two of a Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dori and Bifur spend time together, Bilbo recalls a certain predicament in Ortho.

BILBO

 

Everywhere he goes, they stare. They don’t approach him anymore. The children have been scared into not playing with him. The adults all stare at him as though he’s got an illness eating away at his face and they can’t help but be fascinated and sickly so.

He doesn’t look them in their eyes anymore, because they refuse to let him. He pulls his long coat closer around him as the wind takes it and his great blonde braid and tugs it back. He steps inside Bag End, and Ortho greets him with a hug.

“I heard what happened. Did she really?” Bilbo nods against his neck before pulling back.

“The trader told a dwarf about a hobbit that pointed out where I’d be at dusk. It didn’t take long to figure out the rest.” Bilbo says as Ortho leads the way to the sitting room and tosses a blanket to Bilbo. In short order, the two settle down with tea.

“What happens now?” Bilbo shrugs.

“It’s out of my hands, now, though I think there’s still something left to do,” Bilbo says thoughtfully.

“What could there possibly be left to do? You told Gerontius, and I assume he’s holding a private counsel about it?” Bilbo nods, takes a drink and takes comfort and fortification in the slightly-too-hot warmth of the drink.

“There’s something going on between Lobelia and Camellia.”

“Is there?” Bilbo nods. Takes another sip.

“Yes. I don’t know what it is, but I’m going to find out. Ortho gives him a look. As always, his friend knows more than anyone gives him credit for.

“You think it has to do with what happened.”

“I’m almost positive.” Ortho nods. Bilbo considers his once-best-friend’s situation. He has Bag-End. He has ridiculous amounts of wealth for a hobbit, and yet… He’s very alone. Bilbo knows he had several suitors, and his courtships were never as messy as Bilbo’s single one was.

And yet, he’s still alone.

“Do you get…” Bilbo starts, but words fail him in the middle.

“Lonely? Bitter? Bored?”

“Any of them?”

“Sometimes. Though I can hardly fix the first one.” This gives Ortho pause.

“What about Primrose?” Ortho shakes his head, and Bilbo can tell he’s very sad, now.

“Primrose… and really everyone, is besides the point.” Bilbo remembers then, what feels like a long time ago.

 

…

 

“WHAT IF I DON’T WANT AN ALPHA!?” Bilbo had yelled at Ortho as he sat underneath a tree and cried for what felt like the thousandth time.

“Why not?”

“Be… Because they wouldn’t understand he says, tears coming faster.”

“Understand what?”

“They… they didn’t understand her. They’d expect me to move on from them. They’d expect me to do better than my own mother. They wouldn’t understand that I’m just like her.”

“Are you?” Ortho asked, going to sit next to him.

“I hate it here, Ortho. I want to leave. I want to see what the world has. I don't want to stay here and just… get mated.” He sounds defeated when he says that. “Get mated” is something that had hung over their heads at the end of their childhood.

As the first and second heirs to the Baggins fortune, the two of them were, a few years ago, were two of the most eligible bachelors in all of Hobbiton, right after Gerontius’ first and second heirs, Ginger and Chrysanthemum Took. Speaking of heirs, Bilbo is actually 17th in line for the Took fortune, directly after an aunt of his, while Ortho is not in line at all.

Ortho looks out at the rest of the garden.

“What do you think about Bree?”

“Bree?” Ortho nods.

“Bree. We have family there. We could get away for a while. Figure out what we’re going to do about us.” Bilbo glanced at him.

“What’s wrong with you?” Blunt as the question is, Ortho doesn’t take offense. They’ve been friends for too long for diplomacy. Ortho gave Bilbo another look and held the gaze as he said:

“I don’t want an alpha.”

“Oh.” _Oh._

Bilbo casts a glance upwards past leaves and to the cloudy sky. So Ortho didn’t like alphas.

 

…

 

In the quiet hush of warm tea and good company, Bilbo wonders if maybe Ortho would like to come with him to Erebor. While the expectations for omegas are the same there as they are here, but the variety of occupations combined with the generally more can-do, war-oriented dwarves have made room for a subclass of omegas who like other omegas, the same for alphas and omegas.

It’s on something of a don’t ask, don’t tell basis, since most of the dwarven majority would riot if they ever found out about it. But Ortho might be happier with him; he’s not going to find a single person in Hobbiton that will make him happy the way Bilbo has a shot at being happy with Thorin.

But he might find that in a dwarf. If he can keep a secret, he has a shot in Erebor, and, as far as Bilbo knows, he is Ortho’s only confident.

 

DORI

 

It’s worth sleeping, when Bifur is here. His crazy hair has been smoothed down from last night’s bath, and the two of them sleep back to back, the way they did in the army, so that they can’t be snuck up on.

Bifur, Dori’s noticed, doesn’t mind when it’s hard to get out of bed. He doesn’t really mind when Dori won’t join him because, for a while there, Dori was in a tent by himself and another body in the tent was an attacker and therefore should be beat the fuck up and Dori’s in the kind of mood that ups his chance of reliving that.

While Dori’s been more or less functional for years now, it’s still too hard, some days. He has to trick himself, tell himself that someone is in danger. He remembers that the first time he realized that it was the key to snapping him out of what he’s taken to calling a grey day, though really it can last for moments or for months, like that first time when he has just returned.

Bifur helps. Sometimes he makes tea for the both of them and the two of them sit there with Dori’s grey day for company and drink tea (or not, depending on the severity). Sometimes he knows that Bifur’s going to be stuck with a bad partner for practice, so he can convince himself to get out of bed because bad partners will injure Bifur and hurt him far more than anyone should be hurt and if Dori doesn’t get up RIGHT NOW Bifur’s going to get REALLY HURT. Sometimes it works. Sometimes, he can power through the day’s task (because if he doesn’t, Bifur will be hurt) and then work his ass off until well after he should have quit because then he won’t have the energy to dream.

Nothing is foolproof, though, and the two of them are figuring out lots of methods to beat Dori’s grey days. Of course, it’s really their grey days, because sometimes Bifur has them too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your patience, guys.


	18. On This Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nori makes his move, Gerontius begins his

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The finish line is in sight guys. Have I got you excited?

DIS 

 

Her brother is getting worse, Dis has noticed. He hardly ever sleeps, body to alert to ever really relax. She considers drugging him but, well, when one is on edge because of attempted druggings, well. It isn’t the best of ideas.

Dis grunts as she brings up her broadsword, angling it so that Thorin’s slides along it, rather than crashing directly into it; wears the weapon out, that way. Dis attempts to impale him, but he dodges. It’s odd, really, seeing the abrupt switch from fighting to speaking, from speaking to plotting, from calm to anger.

She hopes he feels hungry enough to eat, after this.

 

NORI                                                                       

 

He kisses Dwalin. It’s at the end of the day, the warrior and thief are both exhausted from their separate work, and out of their minds trying to figure out what’s going to happen next. Dwalin moves around his chambers in the big way he has, removing what’s left of a bread basket he’d bought this morning. He tosses Nori one round loaf and chomps into he other after checking it and the basket for any alterations. 

Nori does the same, and as they sit together, intending to go over what Nori’s seen and heard from more spying sessions on the Iron Hills delegates. So far, it’s nothing, but the Captain of the Guard should know everything. Everything Nori thinks he should know, anyways. A few bread crumbs tumble down into the dwarf’s beard and, as Nori recounts that the omega he’d heard probably has a larger part in things than he’d thought, he gets caught in the hand that brushes the crumbs off.  

Without thinking (he’d been impulsive as a child), he stepped forward and pressed his mouth to Dwalin’s in an oddly chased kiss. After less than a moment’s hesitation, Dwalin kissed back, and the chasteness is lost betwixt them. 

“What… was that for?” Dwalin says in his thick brogue.

“Wanted to for a while now,” Nori says, stepping back again. The impassive way Dwalin’s staring has him doubting the signals he’s been picking up.

“Was I mistaken?” A few more moments of staring and then:

“Not at all.” Then, there is a second and third and fourth kiss, hands come up to hold him round his rib cage, and they come together with a wild kind of want.

Hours later, Dwalin’s running his hands through Nori’s red hair, undone and let loose for the remainder of the evening. 

“I had started to lose hope,” Dwalin murmurs, fingering long, silvery knife scars, a small, circular burn, bruises of various ages, and more. They forgot to bank the fire, so there’s hardly any warmth coming from it now. The furs are drawn up around their shoulders. Dwalin seems to be interested in the burn.

“Where did you get this?”

“Got interrogated a while back. ‘Tis nothing.” Nori says, but Dwalin knows it must have hurt like bitch. 

“Do a lot of omegas have this?”

“Why?”

“Just wondering.” Nori decides to let him keep his secrets. No point in pressing when he can almost certainly learn later.

“Kind of. If the alpha that gives it doesn’t feel in control enough.” Dwalin nods against his neck as he settles down and pulls Nori back to him.

“Thank you,” he says sleepily, mind drifting and Nori quickly following it.

 

BILBO

 

The end of summer is nigh, crisp winds blowing across the landscape as the early heralds of fall. Hobbit farmers have begun to take stock of their mason jars and their basements and their helping hands, hollowing out space for the incoming crops. 

For ten days, Gerontius and the hobbit counsel have convened on this issue. For ten days, none dare draw near Bilbo, with the exception of those who dared draw near him after his mother died and he became insufferably quiet, with a gaze that could put an orc in fear of its life. 

After a great deal of quiet murmurings that went on in a central building only ever used for central discussions, Bilbo and Lobelia were called in. With them are Ortho, who wouldn’t leave his friend to face this alone to save his life (he had done it once before. He wouldn’t do such a thing again) and Camelia, whose presence Bilbo cannot fathom.

The room they walk into (Lobelia arrives first) is not the one the hobbits have been convening in. It is, in fact, the only courtroom in all of hobbiton. A long, curved bench with nine seats behind it arches over a quarter of the room, reminding Bilbo of Erebor, and how Thorin had sat in the seat his grandfather takes up now. The other three quarters of the round room are taken up by stands of heavy wooden benches. In these benches sit the heads of every major household in hobbiton, along with a small posse of hobbits they could trust to keep the peace, which isn’t a great many of them, given the flying roomers, and the only hobbit to ever serve as a jailer, the only one to ever serve as a bailiff, the only hobbit ever to serve as court announcer and the only two ever to record court proceedings. 

The bailiff brought in friends (Bilbo thinks his name might be Thistle, and his friends might be his cousins or siblings, given their similar builds and mannerisms) to help him with this, as by now word has spread everywhere of what the counsel has been talking of. 

The rumors, Bilbo knows from gossip with Ortho, have spread over a vast range of tales, ranging from Lobelia poisoning Bilbo (and visa versa) to Bilbo secretly sending Lobelia dead animal parts (the phrase “he’s just so uncouth now” has taken to accompanying that one). The worst of the gossipers and fear-mongers are outside the courtroom, waiting for the sentence, the story, and, most of all, the juicy, gorey details.

As for the four hobbits at the center of everyone’s attention, they sit at two rectangular tables, heads bowed on both sides, hands ringing, in Ortho’s case, hearts beating hard against chests. 

The announcer, a female alpha called Baby’s Breath, after waiting for the doors to shut, drowning out the dull roar of murmurs and gossip and questions called after entering hobbits outside, departed from his place directly beneath the center of the bench and nimbly jumping up onto a small, raised dias, large enough for three of Bilbo to stand shoulder to shoulder. 

At his ascension, the court recorder held his quill pen above the inkpot at his desk.

“On this day, September the 22nd, in the year 2838 of the Third Age, at 9:24 in the morning, begins the trial of omega Bilbo Baggins, son of the late Belladonna and Bungo Baggins, heir to the Baggins fortune, and alpha Lobelia Sackville, daughter of Camellia and the late Canterbury Sackville, and heir to the Sackville fortune, with the aim of sorting out what happened during the fall of 2833, which marks the unexpected departure of Bilbo Baggins from his home, Bag End on Bagshot Row, not to return for nearly five years.” At this, Baby’s Breath takes a deep breath, her smooth and rhythmic voice pausing, and for a few moments, all that is heard is the scratch of the court recorder’s quill scratching across paper.                         

Bilbo’s heart begins to beat just that much faster than his already nervous pace as each eye shifts between the announcer and the Bilbo and Lobelia. The announcer takes another breath. They were ready to begin.                                                              


	19. The Rest of His Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> GUYS, I JUST HAVE THE EPILOGUE AFTER THIS! *Starts to sweat because author didn't think she'd ever get here* Please, please let me know what you think.

“Master Bilbo Baggins, if you would please take the dias and give your statement.” Bilbo slid from behind his seat, pushed his chair in, and walked quickly and precisely towards the dais. He gives a short half jump until he’s standing on the dais.

  
Every hobbit is staring at him, and he resists the urge to run. It’s one thing when there are places to run off too. It’s another to be on this platform that feels oddly like a cage, though there are no bars. Bilbo faces the bench, waiting.

  
“Do you, Bilbo Baggins, swear to tell the truth, as unbiased and as calmly as possible, to the best of your ability?”

  
“Yes, Sir.” Gerontius nods.

  
“Then begin.”

  
Bilbo takes a deep breath.

  
“I was captured in my back garden at dusk on the last day I was here. I was knocked unconscious and was well beyond Hobbiton when I woke up. At one point, I almost escaped before Imraldis, which is when Ortho and Amaryllis escaped. The remaining two year journey killed or saw the remaining hobbits sold, all of whom were recaptured before Imraldis. I alone arrived as the only captive in a caravan that had once held fifty slaves.” He falls silent. It seems almost odd to him how something that had taken so much from him was condensed into the space of five sentences.

  
“And why do you think Lobelia is the one who sold you out?”

  
“Not an hour before the fact, I found a dead bouquet on my doorstep which, as you know signals the end of a courtship that doesn’t lead to marriage. At the time of my capture, Lobelia was in the midst of… pursuing me, much to my dismay, as she didn’t stop after I had denied her. When I arrived in Erebor, I was fed in secret by a dwarf under the employ of a noble there, and was eventually liberated after a transgression of the caravan leader led to his fleeing the mountain. It was from this noble that I learned of the story of my capture, which had been given by the caravan leader, Linir, to the noble during a feast. According to Linir, he was given a tip by a young hobbit lass right before his departure.”

  
“Did this Linir ever mention the name of the hobbit?”

  
“No.”

  
“But you are certain.”

  
“Yes.” Bilbo says. The conviction in his voice is hard to go against.

  
“Any questions?” Here, the announcer first turns to the bench and, when each member has shaken their head, to the crowd. The Proudfoot alpha raises his hand.

  
“Which noble of Erebor?” The announcer quirks an eyebrow. Bilbo smiles. Yavanna bless whoever it is that decided that the announcer should be the one to keep the peace at a maximum and the queries to a minimum.

  
“Why?”

  
“I was wondering at the credibility of the story, since it’s clear that Master Baggins himself didn’t know the extent of it first hand- only through this dwarf. I would like to know what dwarf, what his or her standing is, and whether or not that affects his motive for sharing such a clearly dark stor-”

  
“I did it,” Lobelia blurts from her place. Bilbo turns his attention from the Proudfoot to Lobelia. He had expected her to deny it. To do something other than say it like this- quickly and calmly, as though her fate was residing at tea somewhere and not in this room.

  
After a moment of silence: “Master Baggins, you may take a seat.” As Bilbo sits, Lobelia rises and, under the heat of her mother’s gaze and the cold of everyone else’s, takes the stand. She does not let the announcer speak.

  
“Bilbo is right. I did tell Linir when and where Bilbo would be and I told him that Bilbo was a good target. I did try to force a courtship, and I knew that Bilbo would be too proud to let anyone know how badly I pushed him. No, I have no defense. That is all I have to say,” At that, she falls quiet. Gerontius begins to nod, as does every other counselor in there. In the brief seconds of silence, anger builds, multiplies exponentially, and explodes. Only after Baby’s Breath, Thistle, and their friends hold shut the gates to the risers and expel the two hobbits who completely lose it from the room does Gerontius give the sentence he’s been meditating on for some time.

  
Bilbo resists turning to look at the faces around him. He can’t decide if he’s afraid of their judgement or their pity. Then, the questions start. They ask the both of them every detail, from Lobelia’s motivation to her feelings on the matter to the harrows of Bilbo’s journey to what exactly happened before Imraldis (at which point Ortho is questioned, as well, and all manner of other things. By the time they are done, the water clocks in the room read ten twenty one in the evening.

  
“Lobelia Sackville…” he says, age showing in his voice. “It… your sentence is banishment, as you banished Bilbo. From this day, you have one year to vacate Hobbiton. Once you leave, you are not allowed back, nor will you be allowed contact with your family, your friend, or traders while they reside here, nor will you be buried on hobbiton lands. You are allowed no closer to Hobbiton than Bree.

  
“With the exception of circumstances beyond your control (which, if they ever occur, will be followed immediately by a second vacation), failure to observe this sentence will end in a hanging. A further investigation will be conducted, to make sure all responsible pay the price. Let it be known that no hobbit will murder or maim you or they will suffer the same sentence.” he finished. The silence in the room is hard to interpret.

  
Are they angry because they don’t think the sentence is harsh enough or because it’s too harsh?

  
Are they glad because it’s perfect to them?

  
Are they going to break down into rioting the moment everyone outside that door knows?

  
“Dismissed,” Gerontius says. As one, every hobbit at the tables rise. They are preceded by the bailiffs, who will see the four of them to their respective homes, and succeeded by the bench hobbits and, finally, the audience.

  
Cool night air washes over them and Bilbo is struck with the sudden realization that this is the first night of the rest of his life and he has, in a way, lived out the last of his days of captivity, in mind and body both (Yavanna willing).


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so happy I made it! This is the end of the series and the end of the story and I'd love it if I could get some feedback. Thank everyone for sticking with me till the end!

BILBO

 

“Thorin,” Bilbo said, glaring at his reflection in the mirror.

“Aye?”

“I’m not aging like I should.”

“What do you mean?” Thorin said, coming to stand behind him and considering Bilbo in the mirror.

“I’m supposed to look middle aged. I barely look a day older than I did when we first met.” Thorin shrugs.

“It’s possible that you’ll age like I will.” Bilbo cocks an eyebrow as Thorin takes one of his hands, matching mithril rings gleaming together. 

“Well, that’s good,” Bilbo says, still a little put off over the discovery. Thorin chuckles, the sound a short, low rumble. 

“Yes, it is.” It’s the least fate could do, really. He remembers both his and, later, Ortho’s (who lives with Ori and works beside him in the library) dismay at the three small boxes that Bilbo had buried in secret. Each one had contained a tiny body within it; one that had already grown too large, too quickly for Bilbo to sustain. It had been his greatest weight to find he couldn’t bear dwarven children, and it’s still his greatest fear that Thorin will see him as lesser, should he ever find out.

Sometimes he can’t stand the hope on Thorin’s face. The “maybe this will be the time”. He’s not being cruel to Bilbo, he just doesn’t know that the time has happened and failed thrice more than he thinks. Sometime he has to go stay with Dori and Bifur (who know) for a day or three or four, because remembering the boxes too often makes him feel so cold all the time. 

The other thing that haunts him is the idea that one day Camelia will show up at the gates of the lonely mountain, and she’ll be taken in and nursed back to health and tell everyone how Bilbo took a golden ring from her, how Bilbo is a thief, how he ruined her reputation, how he’s just as bad as her darling daughter. 

He remembers the letter he received years ago from said daughter. It had been an apology brief in the telling and deep in the meaning and sincerity. Apparently she’s a ranger, now, and has reached some kind of impasse with the hobbits. At least, no one throws stones at her while she’s riding her pony round the borders of the shire anymore. She’ll be retiring soon enough. As much as she hurt him, he wishes she could find someone to settle with her. 

Without her actions, he wouldn’t be here today.                                              

“Are you with me, now?” Thorin asks, mildly amused. Bilbo starts.

“Sorry. Yes.” Thorin nods. 

“Let’s go then.” Together, they step out of their suite, only to be bombarded by Fili and Kili, fine lads that they are. They’ll see Balin before they go to court; the old dwarf’s getting on in his years, and he’ll pass soon. Bilbo will be sad, but Thorin will be devastated, if he knows his husband. 

Dimly, he hears an admonishment, a short sentence, two matching laughs.

It’s a good life he has, Bilbo muses as he presses close to Thorin for a moment before drawing away again. He will never have children, and will eventually have to tell Thorin and they’ll both need to come to grips with it, but he thinks this is far more worth it, in it’s own hard earned way.                                                     

He smiles. Enough with the dark musings. There’s life to live.               


	21. Interlude: Important Update

In almost all of my stories, what you actually see is not what all there actually is. Which is why I'm doing this. Here is my tumblr (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ambiguousrabbitsclock), which will be an AO3 feed for all my fics. If you have a prompt, an alternate event, a question, or any other thing that just won't make it into a finished piece, feel free to ask me for it there. 

-White Rabbit's Clock

P.S. Sorry for the false chapter


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